


hired gun

by simplyclockwork



Series: Redemption [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst with a very eventual happy ending (peep that series link), BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Betrayal, Destroying Jim Moriarty's Web, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Flirting, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Graphic Description, Idiots to bigger idiots to the largest idiots possible to lovers, International Crime, Jim Moriarty's Web, John Watson Has Trust Issues, John Watson is a Mercenary, Johnlock - Freeform, Just the slowest of burns, M/M, Mercenary John Watson, Mutual Attraction, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Pansexual John Watson, Past Torture, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, Soldiers, Threats of Violence, Violence, WIP, enemies to idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 176,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26958208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: After faking his suicide in response to allegations of fraud, two years into dismantling Moriarty's network finds Sherlock Holmes in Morocco. Nearing the end of his mission, he is apprehended by a man with the mercy of a doctor, the control of a soldier, and the brutality of a mercenary.Through capture, betrayal, and unexpected danger, both Sherlock and John Watson, gun-for-hire, will have to learn who can really be trusted.----Updates on Friday.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Redemption [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064420
Comments: 1344
Kudos: 405





	1. Stakeout and Capture

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by anon on Tumblr:
> 
> _I have long searched/waited for a fic, an AU, where John is a mercenary/agent and Sherlock is his mark. He apprehends Sherlock. But tries to alleviate the worst of his captivity. Happy ending please! And if they get together intimately then definitely not until after the captivity is over, as non-con is not for me (not shaming, just not my thing)._
> 
>  **A/N:** The most wonderful [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant) made a GORGEOUS cover for this fic! It's amazing, and you can see it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/68096605?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_367751143)
> 
> Also, the fantastic [Hobbitsfeet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitsfeet/pseuds/Hobbitsfeet) made two covers as well! I love them! You can see and love on them [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577835)
> 
> And we cannot forget the talented [Ketty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettykika78/pseuds/kettykika78) who has drawn some stunning fanarts of our boys in this fic, which are featured throughout the fic. Check out her work and give it some love [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28813746/chapters/70666497)
> 
> This fic has a playlist now: [Hired Gun on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0m3qtNo8t6HhyV7GBA84iL?si=4084c40ed7f6481f)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a playlist for this fic now! You can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0m3qtNo8t6HhyV7GBA84iL?si=t-tqEKFsSj24f2So1RSD5A&nd=1)

“What the hell is this?” John demanded, staring at the small, innocuous flash drive resting in his palm. He lifted his eyes to the young man standing before him, who shrugged.

“Don’t ask me, man,” he replied, indifferent to John's frustration. “They just tell me where to go and who to deliver to.” Grinning crookedly, his eyes flashing with dark mirth, he added, “Don’t shoot the messenger, eh?”

John just growled in response, closing his fingers tightly around the small device. A flash drive meant securing a computer, and he’d been promised he wouldn’t need one for this assignment. Having the assurance proven false set him on edge, adrenaline spilling into his veins and feeding his urge to retaliate. Instead, John shoved the flash drive into his pocket, irritation simmering beneath his controlled facade as he shot a tight, close-lipped smile at the courier. It was fine. John would pretend everything was fine until he was alone. He could then slam his fist into the wall and curse the Colonel for yet another vague assignment.

 _Pay the nice man, Watson_ , he thought through a haze of irritation. John dug a sheaf of Moroccan dirhams from his pocket and pushed several brightly-coloured notes into the courier’s hand. They exchanged nods, and the man disappeared into the crowd. Staring after him, John admitted he was better than the usual amateurs who delivered his assignments. Not many people could ghost with such ease and in such a busy place. Either the couriers were getting better, or John’s boss was sending more experienced messengers, making the area higher risk than John initially assumed.

Upgrading his discretion another notch, John shifted his eyes over the milling crowd, the raucous sounds of the market filling his ears. He shook the tension out of his shoulders, touching his fingertips to the knife hidden at his hip, the gun tucked into a shoulder holster. Posture slipping into an unassuming slouch, John slid into the flow of people.

* * *

The man at his feet gurgled, staring up at Sherlock with shocked eyes. The early-morning sunrise painted a golden edge to his slackening face. Even as Sherlock watched, the light in the dying man’s gaze dimmed, dulled, and flickered out with the blood seeping from his open throat. The first time Sherlock watched a man gasp his last breath, the nausea lingered for days. Now, he watched impassively, the corpse just one more fallen chess piece in the game between him and Moriarty's network.

Death was his new norm. The body at his feet belonged to yet another kill in a long list that felt endless. Until recently, Sherlock believed he wouldn’t ever see the end. Now, with this man dead, only five remained. Five living people left before Sherlock could go home.

It had been ages. Two weeks ago was two years since faking his own death, and Sherlock missed London like a physical part of himself. If Sherlock was naive enough to believe in the concept of a soul, he might have said it had been parted from him the second he set foot off the roof of Bart’s Hospital. He left without knowing whether he would see the familiar, smoggy skyline of home again.

He would leave Morocco tonight, land in Serbia late tomorrow. Five names. Five men between him and home. He was so close. It was right there, the lure of success, of completion. Sherlock could taste it.

* * *

The computer was slower than John liked but secure enough. He squatted in front of the laptop, checking the door every few seconds over his shoulder. After waiting for the occupants of the apartment to leave, he hoped they wouldn’t be back in the fifteen or so minutes it would take him to go over the flash drive, wipe the contents, and slip out unnoticed.

After a night spent tossing and turning, filled with burning curiousity about the flash drive, John’s fingers jittered with barely suppressed anticipation. It was early in the day yet, and he was eager to get started.

With wariness prickling over the nape of his neck, John slid the device into one of the USB ports and waited for the computer to recognize the connection. He stretched and rolled his shoulders back, leaning forward when the flash drive popped up in the taskbar. Once loaded, John typed in his access code and frowned at the singular folder, marked simply by a designated codename: _Phoenix._ The target was from London, England. British.

Leaning back, John rubbed a hand over his face, assailed by memories he tried not to look too closely at. Too many years stood between now and when John last walked on English soil, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. Shaking his head, John pushed aside a nostalgic twinge and opened the file, trying not to linger on the fact that Phoenix was a Londoner, just like him.

The first thing John noticed was a photo, the icon small and grainy until he double-clicked, and the quality slowly improved. Even before the resolution was entirely clear, John could see Phoenix was attractive. His face was all sharp edges, and his eyes were sharper still, piercing even with the angle of the photo. It was taken from above, with Phoenix paused at the edge of an alley, peering out at the bustling street. Idly, John wondered why the photographer didn’t take the man out themselves and theorized that Phoenix must not have constituted a high enough threat at the time. Whatever the reason for John’s involvement, it was clear that Phoenix did _something_ to move from ‘under observation’ to ‘a great big problem' pretty fast. The photo was dated only two weeks prior.

Closing the image, John clicked through the rest of the flash drive’s contents. He read Phoenix’s skill set, noting that he was dangerously intelligent, quick on his feet, and trained in hand-to-hand combat. Nowhere did the document tell him _what_ Phoenix did to earn himself a spot on John’s hit list. He assumed discretion would be integral in his apprehension.

The final note in the file noted Phoenix must be taken alive. Below were two addresses, one of his current whereabouts, the other for the drop point. The job outline didn’t specify whether that meant dropping off Phoenix unharmed, which John always assumed implied that the use of necessary force was acceptable. John's lip curled as he wondered whether or not Phoenix would cooperate. He preferred to keep his pick-ups controlled, calm, and as non-violent as possible. Made for a smoother job.

A sound in the hallway spurred him into action. Wiping the flash drive, John ejected the device, shoved it into his pocket and set the computer back onto the desk as it powered down. A key scraped in the lock. John was already across the room and out on the balcony before the tumblers shifted.

Sliding the screen door closed silently behind him, John checked for witnesses, found the coast clear, and pulled himself over the railing.

* * *

Exhaustion hung heavy on his frame, bowing his back as Sherlock stumbled into his tiny room. The lodging had served as his home for two months now, and the sight of the bare, tan walls filled him with both a sense of security and an aching homesickness for London. It was hot here, nothing like the foggy, chill haze of his city, and Sherlock pined for familiar streets with a ferocity that surprised even him.

As he stripped out of sweat-stiffened clothes, he thought even the rank smell of the Thames would be welcome.

The water from the bath faucet was too hot. The billowing steam pulled fresh perspiration from his pores before Sherlock turned the taps to cold. The chill water did less to loosen his sore muscles, but it soothed the sunburn on his face when he climbed into the tub and ducked his head beneath the surface.

Sherlock opened his eyes beneath the water, staying under long enough for his lungs to burn. Bubbles escaped from his nose and mouth before he lifted his head and sucked in a gasp of air. He washed his hair, face and body, stepping out of the tub just as shivers began to ripple over his goosebump-covered skin.

Draining the tub, his mind already shutting down and craving sleep, Sherlock towelled dry with slow hands. He tousled his hair, left it ruffled and dripping, and dropped the towel over the edge of the empty tub.

In the main room, he paused to draw the gauzy curtains over the window as the sun rose, the heat building as the day ticked toward the hottest part of the morning. Without bothering to dress or pull back the covers, Sherlock collapsed naked across the narrow bed. Face buried in the pillow, he was asleep within seconds.

* * *

Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down the side of his face as John shifted his posture to alleviate a cramp in his left thigh. The ghost of an ache lingered in the limb, and he massaged the muscle with one hand while he gripped binoculars in the other. After watching Phoenix’s bolthole for the better half of the day, John was antsy. Hours of sitting brought out his restless side, making him ache for action, for adrenaline and the chase. If someone told him working as a mercenary involved almost as much sitting around as most desk jobs, John was confident he wouldn’t have bothered.

But he was here, with a job and hours of sitting already under his belt, with many more ahead. Phoenix's file listed him as a high-level flight risk, and John’s instincts told him Phoenix was preparing to relocate. After returning to his room, he'd drawn the curtains—providing a brief and pleasantly unexpected flash of nudity—and didn't move for the next four hours. John could only assume he was asleep, catching up on missed rest and sleeping the day away in preparation for his next move. He estimated Phoenix would leave either that night or early the next day. It was a tactic John himself used, readying himself for action by refreshing his mind and body with several consecutive hours of needed shut-eye before his next job.

His initial impression of Phoenix rose another notch in respect. John needed to be cautious. Phoenix didn’t seem the type to be easily caught off guard.

A low growl drew John’s attention to his stomach, and he grimaced. Holding the binoculars with one hand, eyes still trained on Phoenix’s window, he dug for the snack he’d picked up at an early-morning street food stall on his way to the stakeout. The _sfenj_ was mostly cold, but still airy and soft inside, and John hummed his enjoyment around a mouthful of fried dough. He’d miss the street food of Morocco when he left. Still, there would always be another place, with its own food and culture, something to enjoy in his minimal but appreciated downtime.

Popping the last of the _sfenj_ into his mouth, John licked the oil and butter from his fingers before wiping them dry on his thigh.

A shadow passed by Phoenix’s window, the first sign of movement within the dwelling, and John froze. Both hands back on the binoculars, he held his breath and stared, waiting for further action.

There. Phoenix stopped at the window, flicked back the curtains, and looked outside. John narrowed his eyes and sucked in a soft inhale, reminding himself that there was no way Phoenix could see him from this distance. With the binoculars bringing Phoenix into perfect clarity, it was unnerving to see the way his sharp, pale eyes swept the street. They darted over the nearby buildings and seemed to settle on John’s exact position.

Unblinking and still as a statue, John stared back. He listened to the rush of his racing pulse in his ears until the curtain dropped, and Phoenix’s shadow moved away from the window. John came back to life with a strained sigh through his teeth. Lowering the binoculars, he moved quickly but with careful control, packing up his equipment and stuffing the napkin from his meal into his bag.

Minutes later, John was down the side of the building. Canvas bag over his shoulder and ball cap on, he was just another tourist on holiday. John slipped into the growing crowds as the day fell toward the cooler hours of evening, and the city came to life. 

No doubt, Phoenix would make his move soon. Which meant John needed to be ready. As he angled past a family, shooting them a smile when they looked his way, John was already pulling together the pieces of his plan.

* * *

Though his body still craved sleep, Sherlock forced himself to rise when the alarm on his watch trilled into the relative quiet of his room. Outside and below, the sound of the city coming to life rose from the streets, but the building itself was nearly silent.

Rising, Sherlock stretched his arms toward the ceiling, working kinks out of his body, stiff from sleeping in the same position for several hours. His lower back and abdomen both ached, a testament to the wounds received by his last target when the man fought back before Sherlock got the upper hand. He winced at a twinge in his ribs and rubbed a hand absently over the bruised area, grateful it wasn’t worse

He crossed to the window and flicked the curtain aside, checking for signs of unusual activity. Though he knew Moriarty’s men would be too smart to hide in plain sight with Sherlock’s powers of observation, he couldn’t help but check. It was instinctive and had saved him more than once.

Seeing nothing out of the norm, he stepped away and let the curtain fall into place before turning to study the room. Sherlock needed to book his flight. The wifi in the building was spotty at best, not to mention unreliable in its security. Public wifi, paired with a VPN, would have to be sufficient.

His things were packed and ready to go in ten minutes. Travelling light allowed him the best freedom of movement, and he only kept what little he had to. He had his basic toiletries, whatever clothes helped him best blend in, his lockpicks and tools, several fake passports. There was various money in multiple currencies, a small Acer laptop, and a handgun with one extra magazine and two ammunition boxes wrapped in a pair of ratty jeans. No phone, too easy to trace, and nothing personal save for the small leather case that held his lockpicks.

Sherlock packed everything but his picks and laptop into a sturdy duffle. He hesitated, lingering over the gun, wondering if he should take it. Even though it was evening, the temperatures were still high and stifling, and bringing it meant wearing a second layer to cover its presence. He was just going down the street to a nearby hostel to tap into the wifi, book his ticket, and then he’d be back. The gun would only draw attention, something he couldn’t afford this close to leaving.

Once Sherlock left the building, pausing in the doorway to scan the street, he immediately regretted his decision to leave the gun behind, feeling the weapon’s absence sharply. Despite his distaste for firearms, the small handgun had been the fine line between life and death enough times for him to appreciate its existence. He lingered, toying with the idea of going back upstairs to retrieve it.

Caught up in his indecision, he nearly missed the feeling of someone approaching him. Sherlock froze. His breath stuttered out in a tense huff, and he readied himself for an attack. But the stranger, a white man with a canvas duffle bag over one shoulder wearing simple clothes and a ball cap, just brushed past him, muttering a soft, nearly indistinct apology when their shoulders touched. 

Sherlock watched him go with narrowed eyes until the man disappeared around a corner. His step never faltered, unhurried but not uncertain, and Sherlock dismissed him as a tourist on holiday.

Later, he would wonder how he missed the obvious.

* * *

When Phoenix finally left his room, John shifted through the scarce shadows. He was ready to follow the man until they reached somewhere John could subdue him and have Phoenix out of sight before anyone happened upon them.

He wasn’t expecting Phoenix to abruptly halt in the exit of the building and linger there with apparent uncertainty. John waited in the dark and held his breath, eyes narrowed as he watched the tall Englishman stand in one spot.

After nearly a minute and a half, John finally had to act. If he stayed any longer, no doubt someone would get suspicious, and Phoenix didn’t look like he would move anytime soon. Decision made, John strode forward with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a slouch to adjust his height. He took care to jostle Phoenix slightly, just enough to seem accidental.

“Sorry, mate,” he muttered, brushing past and out into the alley as Phoenix stiffened with surprise at the brief contact. Resisting the urge to look back, John walked in a slow, measured pace toward the street, glancing about in that unhurried, relaxed way of a traveller taking in the sights.

His heart hammered in his chest like a drumline until he passed out of Phoenix’s view.

Retreating into the doorway of a building with a direct eye line to the alley, John stepped into the shadows clinging to the archway. The breath he was holding hissed out through his teeth, and he forced his shoulders to relax.

That had been too close. Did Phoenix notice him lurking? Was he suspicious? If so, he would be that much harder to take quietly, and John cursed beneath his breath. Shaking his head and blowing out another sigh, he watched the mouth of the alley with unblinking eyes, leaning further into his cover.

When Phoenix eventually appeared, he only gave his surroundings a cursory glance before turning left and striding away from the alley. His eyes didn’t linger, he didn’t search the crowd, and he moved like a man at leisure, instead of one wary or anticipating an attack.

The last of his anxiety eased away as John surmised that Phoenix either believed his ruse or was a very, _very_ good actor. Prepared for either, John slid out of the doorway and walked in the same direction as his target. Phoenix was easy to pick out in a crowd, tall and far too striking with his dark curls and sharp cheekbones.

Following at a careful distance, John waited for his opportunity to strike.

* * *

The light was beginning to sink into twilight when Sherlock headed back to his room, and the streets were loud and bustling. Annoyed by the crowds, feeling claustrophobic and buffeted by strangers, he darted down a side alley, releasing a sigh of relief when he found himself alone. With the heat and the clinging weight of lingering exhaustion, Sherlock finally felt like he could catch his breath in the open space.

He realized his mistake moments later, but by then, he couldn't escape the assault. Sherlock sensed the man seconds too late and could only twist and throw up his arm to absorb the blow meant for the back of his head, instead of dodging it entirely. To his dismay, his attacker grabbed his wrist in an iron grip. He slid a foot between Sherlock's legs to break his balance with a controlled twist and spun Sherlock into the recessed niche of a doorway. 

With the air knocked from his lungs by the force of the impact, Sherlock struggled to recover. He nearly caught his breath when the man wrenched his arm around and turned Sherlock, and they were suddenly face-to-face. Taking in the sight of the man, his duffle bag, tanned white skin and ball cap, Sherlock’s eyes went wide, recognizing the ‘tourist’ who had bumped into him outside his rooms.

_Idiot,_ he cursed silently, staring at the dark blue eyes pinned to his. He had been _so stupid,_ dismissing the man as a threat. He was tired and slipping, and here was the consequence.

Hot breath warmed Sherlock’s throat, and a low voice murmured, “Don’t move.” A hand felt over Sherlock’s body, checking for hidden weapons, thorough and quick. The man was no common thug, that much was clear. He frisked Sherlock with practiced sweeps of his hand, radiating competence and experience. He kept Sherlock's arm twisted at his back without giving so much as an inch when Sherlock wriggled to test his strength.

He fell still when the hand searching him disappeared, and a muscled forearm pressed him into the wall by the throat. “What did I _just_ say?” the man hissed, glaring up at Sherlock with hard eyes. He was several inches shorter, but the height difference between them didn’t give Sherlock any advantages, not with his arm and neck pinned. He swallowed, feeling his throat expand against the pressure, and blinked twice to show he understood. The man caught the message and nodded. “Alright.”

The second he softened his grip, moving to pull Sherlock away from the wall, bending to check his legs, Sherlock reacted. There was a thin blade in the side of his left boot, and he jerked forward then back to shift the man off balance before he went for it.

His fingers barely brushed the handle before a boot connected with the back of his knee, and Sherlock went down with a muffled shout. Pain ripped through his leg, and the air was pulled from his lungs again as he hit the ground. The impact sent a ripple of agony through his bruised ribs and threw his diaphragm into spasm. In seconds, he was helpless and desperately trying to breathe with a frozen chest.

A knee settled into the small of his back, carefully pinning Sherlock by his lower body instead of his paralyzed upper half. He felt the man dig the knife out and sagged in reluctant defeat. The hard plastic edge of a zip tie bit into his wrists, tight enough to press the delicate bones together but not to rub the skin raw, before the man gripped him by the throat, shifted, and pulled Sherlock into a kneeling position.

“Breathe slowly,” he ordered in a low voice. “The longer you fight the spasm, the worse it will get until you hyperventilate and pass out.” Sherlock struggled, still pulling in breaths that were too fast and too shallow. The man’s hand tightened, and Sherlock’s airway closed partially, strangling his next inhale into a wheeze. “Christ, listen to me, would you?” The man's irritation was evident, but the squeeze of his fingers on either side of Sherlock’s throat was controlled and surprisingly gentle.

Through his growing disorientation, Sherlock realized the man wasn’t choking him, but trying to control his air intake and slow his panicked gasps. The entire situation felt surreal. A typical attacker or hitman, as Sherlock was beginning to think the stranger must be, wouldn’t care. Even if he hadn’t been sent to kill Sherlock, anyone else would have just let him hyperventilate and lose consciousness, making the extraction easier.

When a hand landed on his chest and slid down to where Sherlock’s diaphragm had tightened into a constricting band, it clicked. Through the haze of oxygen deprivation, the easy expertise behind the man’s actions was explicit. Whatever he was now, Sherlock would bet his life, as little as it was worth, that his attacker had once been a doctor.

Perplexed by the realization, he finally managed a proper breath. The pressure on his chest eased slowly, as did the grip on his throat, and Sherlock gulped in another, grateful when the dizziness began to recede.

“Slowly,” the man cautioned, hand hovering on Sherlock’s throat, warm and rough against his skin. The man was clearly left-handed and familiar with firearms, going by the calluses he could feel on the man’s palm. It was an alarming deduction, speaking to a skilled, dangerous individual. As Sherlock breathed deeply, regaining his focus in inches, the man went on. “I’d rather not have to hurt you again, so maybe just do as I say, yeah?”

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock didn’t reply, instead studying their surroundings for any chance of escape, desperately looking for a way out.

The man’s hand lifted from his chest and connected with the side of Sherlock’s head. It was an open-palmed blow, meant to stun rather than seriously harm, and Sherlock swayed as his ear began to ring. Vertigo rushed over him, and he tilted sideways before the man caught his arm, hauling him to his feet. Sherlock rose, stumbling on his injured leg, the man steadying him with an efficient grip.

“I’ll say it again,” the stranger growled, his breath hot and fast but controlled against Sherlock’s ear. “If you do as I say, I won’t hurt you. Got it?”

This time, Sherlock nodded, his skull still ringing with the intensity of the strike. He blinked and tilted his head to the side, wondering if the eardrum was damaged. As if reading his mind, the man squeezed his shoulder in what almost felt like an attempt at comfort. It was confusing and at odds with his efficient, cold violence.

“There’s no blood,” the man said in a reassuring tone that made Sherlock blink. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t try to fight me again.” He waited for Sherlock’s nod before tilting his head in one of his own. “Alright. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [KettyKika78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettykika78/pseuds/kettykika78)


	2. Drop Site

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected turn of events forces John to make a split-second decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finallllyyyyyy wrote chapter two.

The pick-up went far easier than John anticipated. As he hauled Phoenix out of sight and toward the nondescript rental car he’d parked nearby earlier in the day, he could only hope the drop-off would be as smooth.

But, as John’s stunning blow wore off, Phoenix began to struggle. Despite his breathing issues and the limp in his step, his zip-tied hands, he writhed viciously against John’s grip on his restraints. He twisted and almost tugged John off his feet with a sudden and violent jerk to the left.

Prepared, John shifted his weight, loosening his muscles enough for the pull to tug him along with his captive. Caught off guard by John following his motions, Phoenix overshot. He lost his balance, careening forward until John planted his back foot and shoved forward then back. The movement put Phoenix off his centre. Feet skidding against loose rocks on the cobblestones, he tipped neatly over onto his side once John released his grip on the cable tie.

Phoenix lay on the ground, curled onto his side, blinking up at John with a dazed expression on his sharp features. John stood over him, checking their surroundings to ensure they were still alone. For the moment, they were clear, but he couldn’t rely on that to continue.

“You’re making this much harder than it needs to be.” John nudged the tip of his boot into the man’s ribs to force him onto his stomach. Phoenix was helpless with his hands restrained behind him, struggling to rise before John’s foot landed on his back, and he went still.

Bootheel positioned over the tender skin above Phoenix’s left kidney, John pressed. The pressure was light, a warning, not enough to hurt but enough to make the threat clear. “I told you to come quietly. Either listen, or I’ll make you quiet.”

Twisting his head to the side, Phoenix sneered, “Big talk and no action.” His eyes, pale and razor-sharp, darted over John’s face and figure, lingering on his shoulders before he added, _“Captain."_

Shock rippled through John at the title. Unheard in so long, it still made his back stiffen as he almost stood at attention. Catching himself, he ground his teeth together and pushed away his confusion.

Phoenix was far more dangerous than he first assumed if he knew John’s past.

“I’m done playing,” John said in a crisp, tight voice. Instead of inspiring fear, he saw Phoenix smirk, and his eyes narrowed. Bending, John grabbed the man’s thick, dark curls, ignoring the way they clung to his fingers with sweat, and smacked his head against the cobblestones with just enough force to make the man go limp as he lost consciousness.

John hauled Phoenix’s slack body into the back of the rental car and onto the floor. He bound his feet together with two more zip ties before dropping a blanket over to hide him, John’s jaw clenching and releasing in a rhythmic grinding of teeth. He searched through his pockets, confiscating a small laptop, some cash, a pre-paid credit card, and a set of what looked like lock picks. Staring at the last, John shrugged and stuffed the objects into his canvas duffle bag. 

Rising, he stretched the tension from his spine and scowled down at his unresponsive captive. The next mission better be twice his usual fee. Otherwise, he’d be telling the Colonel to go fuck himself for the trouble of this one. 

* * *

The second his eyes opened, Sherlock squinted them closed again. His ears rang, pain throbbing through his head in sick, rolling pulses. He felt something sticky high on his face where hairline met with forehead and grimaced. Something bit the corners of his lips, his mouth filled with the thick taste of cotton—some kind of gag. Loss of freedom was the price of his complacency.

Sherlock wriggled and realized his things had been taken, and he cursed silently. Mentally kicking himself for being stupid enough to leave his gun behind, he tried to focus past the agony of his headache and listen. 

He heard the rumble of an engine, felt the vibration of movement through his body. A blanket was draped over him, covering everything from head to toe and muffling ambient noise. Sherlock dimly remembered a nondescript car before his memory faded into a red haze of pain.

Eyes still closed, he tried to breathe slowly through the cloth in his mouth and considered his options.

His captor was military, likely an ex-soldier, given his penchant for kidnapping men off the street. He wore nothing to indicate him as employed by Her Majesty’s army. Despite his British accent, he seemed to have been abroad far longer than Sherlock.

Ex-soldier, ex-doctor. Well-trained, skilled, and intelligent enough to track Sherlock and take him by surprise. Strong enough to keep hold of him, rendering Sherlock’s own defensive training all but useless. His head still rang with the force of the attack, and though his captor told Sherlock to cooperate, Sherlock never did follow orders well.

He listened to the hum of the engine, rocked with the start and stop nature of vehicular travel, and wondered where he would end up. He had no doubts that Moriarty’s men were behind his capture and tried to imagine what might await him at the end of the drive.

The motion of the vehicle rocked him in the floor well, lulling him into a daze. As the time stretched out, the gag in his mouth sucked the moisture from his lips and tongue. It made every inhale taste like dry cotton and the faint tang of metal as the skin around his mouth split and bled sluggishly. It was hot. The rental car obviously lacked air conditioning. Sherlock felt a flush work up his body as he counted out nearly two hours of travel.

There was a cramp starting in his thigh. It worked its way down his leg, making the limb twitch and jitter, his stomach clenching with the beginnings of dehydration. With the gag in his mouth, talking was impossible, and Sherlock resisted the urge to whine his discomfort.

Then, blessedly, they stopped.

The car shifted, the force of its arrested movement jerking Sherlock against the back of the front seats before the engine cut off. He curled up beneath the blanket as much as his bound, cramping legs would allow and waited.

When the door near his feet opened, it let in a rush of hot, dry air, and Sherlock sucked feebly through the gag, desperate for something that wasn’t his own re-inhaled breathing. The blanket lifted off his head, leaving him blinking to clear his vision as his eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden light. With black spots dancing in his view, Sherlock struggled to react to the hand gripping his zip-tied wrists and hauling him up to a half-sitting position. Tilted against the back seats, kneeling on the floor, Sherlock shook his head and looked up at his captor. The man stared back at him.

“I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?” His voice was rough and strange after hours of mechanical noise. Sweat trickled down his flushed face, beyond the collar of his shirt and disappearing over a clavicle.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the droplet’s path and nodded.

“Good.” Reaching out, the man loosened the gag and let it slip down to hang from Sherlock’s neck.

The second it was gone, and his mouth was clear, Sherlock gagged, choked, and sucked in a noisy, desperate breath. He tried to draw in another, thinking he could fill his lungs and shout, but his captor clapped a hand over his mouth.

His grip was hard, forcefully punishing, mashing Sherlock’s lips against his teeth. Shaking his head, he tried to angle his jaw to bite into the fleshy heel of the man’s hand. He only succeeded in scraping his teeth against skin before fingers dug into his jaw and forced his mouth open.

“I really wouldn’t do that,” the man warned, looking down at Sherlock with fierce eyes. “Remember what I said about cooperating?” He waited for Sherlock’s nod and received only a deadly glare instead. Sighing, he went on, adding, “I’m serious. If you don’t settle down, I’ll make you.”

The hand disappeared from his mouth, and Sherlock drew in a breath once again, but before he could let it out in a yell, a plastic water bottle knocked against his bottom lip. Water spilled over his mouth and chin, and rather than choke and inhale the liquid into his lungs, Sherlock drank. He sucked the water down with blatant greed, his tongue dry and barren, the water as welcomed as an oasis in the desert.

It mixed with the half-dried blood marring his split lip and filled his mouth with the taste of metal.

Swallowing dropped a watery sensation of fullness into his stomach until the bottle disappeared, and he tipped backward with a grunt. Hands pinned beneath him, Sherlock struggled to roll onto his side, kicking his bound feet into the door frame. The man caught him by the knees and tilted him onto his side. Sherlock went limp, winded and exhausted by the brief burst of movement. The inside of the car was stifling. Even with the door open, and Sherlock’s curls clung to his forehead, plastered against his skin by sweat. Focused on catching his breath, his eyes drifted to the man and past him, taking in the darkened sky.

It was night, and the air had yet to cool.

The man studied him, his dark blue eyes roving over Sherlock’s face and drawing his attention. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled, “You called me Captain.”

Staring back at him, Sherlock licked his lips and, clearing his throat, said, “I did. Because you are.”

A muscle twitched in the man’s jaw, betraying his discomfort with the response. As if considering the words, he blew out a long sigh before he responded, “Was. I _was_ a captain. I’m… not anymore.” Looking away, left hand flexing, Sherlock’s captor squatted in the open car door and frowned into the dark. Sherlock studied him in the ensuing silence until the man turned back and asked, “How did you know?”

“I didn’t.” Swallowing around reactive saliva, Sherlock sniffed. The back of his throat felt thick and sticky, no doubt a consequence of his earlier assault. “It was a guess, but a good one.” When the man’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous expression flickering over his tanned face, Sherlock hurried to add, “I know you were a soldier. I could get into particulars, but it’s easier if you just accept that I know things because I _see them._ Which, if your employer provided any pertinent information, you are likely already aware of.” He waited and received a curt nod before continuing. “You were most likely an army-doctor, invalided by an injury that doesn’t seem to impact your new role too substantially.” Sherlock looked the man over with a critical eye, pretending, for the moment, that he wasn’t entirely at his mercy. “It’s not hard to see why a man like yourself ended up in Moriarty’s employ.”

A slow frown creased the man’s forehead, pushing his eyebrows together as his lips turned down at the corners with a bemused moue. “Who’s Moriarty?”

* * *

A stubborn quiet met his question. Still squatting in the open space of the rear driver’s side door, John studied his captive. The man studied him back with eyes that looked nearly-silver in the dark and unsettlingly sharp. It was like being taken apart, that gaze. As if Phoenix was stripping John of his skin, looking down to his core, to blood and bone.

Phoenix was a liability. John had no doubt about that. The more the man spoke, the clearer it became to John why he was tasked with capturing him. But the name Moriarty was unfamiliar to John, one he never heard before now, and he narrowed his eyes down at the man lying in a cramped position behind the front seats.

When he received no answer, John stood and stretched out his legs, tendons aching from holding the squat for so long.

“Keep quiet,” he said before tossing the blanket over Phoenix’s long form. The door closed with a click, cutting off any possibility of a response. Standing outside the car, John slipped his hands into his pockets and tilted his head up toward the night sky. It was clear and hot, the dry heat heavy and close against his skin.

A drop of sweat trickled down his temple and along his cheek as John stared up at the stars overhead. Memories crept into his head, insidious and never far, of a different desert, of constellations burning like white fire over red sand and the rattle of machine gunfire.

Sucked over his teeth, his inhale whistled as John pushed the thoughts back. Feeling a phantom twinge of pain in his left shoulder, he slipped his hands back out of his pockets and slid behind the wheel. Pausing to glance in the back at the motionless form beneath the blanket, John closed his eyes, settled his shoulders against the seat, and started the engine.

The drop site was a few hours away. John could be there and rid of his cargo by morning, and off to his next job. Maybe somewhere temperate or tropical. Maybe Bali.

Images of palm trees and crystalline, blue waters occupying his thoughts, John shifted the car into gear, shoulder-checked, and guided the vehicle back onto the road.

* * *

Curled beneath the stifling weight of the blanket, Sherlock stared at the bottom of the backseat. He combed through his interactions with his captor with a fine-toothed comb. It was better than succumbing to the faint feeling of panic beginning to well up inside him.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock ticked off what he knew so far.

His captor was an ex-soldier, formerly a man of medicine. Well-trained, skilled, competent. Brutal and strong with an unexpected edge of mercy that might be an attempt to hide a good character. He used violence and force when necessary and showed restraint when a cooler head was needed. He gave Sherlock water, handled him efficiently but without undue malice.

He didn’t replace the gag once removed.

Judging by the man’s absolute lack of familiar reaction to the name, he didn't know of Moriarty. Yet, there was little doubt in Sherlock’s mind that his captor must be employed by Moriarty’s network. Most likely, he was a freelancer of some kind, possibly a mercenary. Loyal to no one but himself.

Maybe Sherlock could reason with him. Mercenary he might be, but the man once fought for something bigger than himself. Queen and Country meant little to Sherlock, though he knew it meant much to some people. People who believed in doing the right thing, being involved, standing up for something. Sherlock never stood up for anything but his own interest in all his life, and he wondered what could take a man who stood up for others and change him until he cared for no one but himself. Pledged temporary allegiance to the highest bidder, captured strangers without knowledge of who they were.

Maybe believing in Queen and Country did that. And, perhaps, there was something of that left. There was only one way to find out—a theory.

A test.

He let an hour pass, feeling the heat press in and draw the moisture from his pores. Clearing his throat, Sherlock coughed hard and loud until his vocal cords felt raw and hot. He curled into himself, hacked out a rough sound, and croaked, “Water.”

There was a pause before he received a reply, the man answering with a short, “I gave you water.”

Sherlock bit into his dry lip and set the dried blood to bubbling up fresh from the cut, groaning, _“Please.”_ Silence. He held his breath, hoping, tensing as he waited.

Finally, the man spoke again, snapping, “Goddammit,” before the car pulled off the road with a jerk. The gears made a harsh grinding sound as Sherlock’s captor engaged the emergency brake. The blanket disappeared, torn off his face by an impatient hand.

Sherlock once again found a plastic bottle pressed to his lips. He drank, choking a little on the water until he struggled into a partially upright position. The warmed liquid trickled down his chin and his neck. It seeped into the collar of his shirt, the air hot enough that it seemed to evaporate almost as quickly as it ran over his skin.

The man watched him with a stony expression, tilting the bottle away when Sherlock struggled to swallow. “Finished?” he asked, voice tense.

“Trying to get rid of me, are you?” Sherlock retorted, trying for sarcastic but sounding only weak. His throat felt raw, abraded by the forced coughing. The man’s eyes narrowed.

“How could you tell?” he said, feeding Sherlock’s cynical tone right back to him. He nudged the mouth of the bottle against Sherlock’s bottom lip until Sherlock shook his head. Screwing the cap back on, the man tossed the water into the passenger seat and reached for the blanket.

Shimmying up a little higher, Sherlock tilted forward to catch his eye. “Wait,” he implored, watching the man stiffen with a wary expression. “I need you to listen to me.”

His back straightening, the man went rigid. “I really don’t have to do any such thing.” The words were terse and tight, a shadow passing over the man’s face. It darkened his eyes, made them glitter in the dark, and Sherlock pulled in an unsteady breath at the change.

Though he knew the man was dangerous, now he _looked_ dangerous. Gone was the unassuming facade, replaced with a visage that Sherlock knew to be something which must lurk deep.

Here was the thing that changed a patriotic man into something of nightmares.

“You don’t know who I am,” Sherlock said, trying again to insert reason. But his words fell on deaf ears as the man gripped the blanket, paused, and looked at him with a hard stare.

“No, I don’t. And I don’t need to. I’ve got a job to do, and I don’t need to hear your life story to do it.” Dropping the blanket, he dug into his pocket for something.

Sherlock wilted at the sight of the thin strip of cotton. He tried to struggle, but there was nowhere to go. His bound hands and feet left him helpless, and the gag slipped past the brief resistance of his lips with ease. When it butted up against his clenched teeth, the man simply grabbed him by the jaw, pinched his nose shut, and waited until Sherlock’s mouth opened with a desperate gasp.

The gag slid over his tongue, the knot rubbing at the back of his skull. He managed to shoot one last furious look at his captor before a hand tipped him back down onto his side, and the blanket settled over his head.

* * *

John passed the few hours to the drop site with hands clenched tight and white-knuckled around the steering wheel. His head swam, no longer with images of tropical Bali but of wide, pleading eyes that gleamed silver in the dark interior of the car.

He cursed quietly under his breath and resisted the urge to slam his palm against the wheel.

It was supposed to be a straight-forward job. Most were meant to be, and yet, somehow, rarely was that the case. John was sick of it. Tired. _Exhausted._ Working for the highest bidder, loyal to none. That’s what this was supposed to be.

Lips pulling down at the corners in a fierce grimace, John glared out at the road. Even in the military, he had more freedom. Now, it seemed he was tethered to endless jobs where nothing ever went the way it was supposed to. Phoenix’s words rattled him. The imploring way he begged to tell his story sat like a stone in John’s gut. He knew the coughing fit was faked. A ploy to force him to hear Phoenix out?

He couldn't be sure.

His GPS pinged, and John turned the wheel, guiding the car into a left turn as directed. The site was close. Soon, he’d be free of his latest burden. Free to disappear.

Fuck it all. John _would_ go to Bali, but not for new jobs. Let the Colonel and his cheeky messengers shove all their assignments up their arseholes. John was done. He had more than enough money to quit, more than he could hope to spend in a lifetime. One last drop, and he was done.

The GPS pinged again, announcing his arrival. John shut the device off and stopped the car. Looking out the windshield, he saw nothing but scrub grass and the shadowed, looming shape of a hill in the distance, dark against the night sky. He frowned, scanning the area for a building, another car, for anything, and coming up empty.

He killed the engine and sat stiffly, listening to the car tinging and clicking as it went through its cooldown functions. On immediate alert, John narrowed his eyes. Nothing moved out in the dark, but he didn’t trust it. Something felt… off. His instincts screamed internally, emphasizing the difference between this drop and all the ones before it. Never had he been sent out into the middle of nowhere like this without someone waiting to meet him. The lack of any other presence put him on edge.

Still, there was a job to complete, and sitting here in the car achieved nothing.

John opened the door and stepped out slowly, his movements cautious. He sniffed the hot air, smelled vegetation, sand and dirt, and narrowed his eyes into the dark. There was nothing: no movement, no voice calling out, no sound of an idling engine or footsteps.

Trying to ignore his growing unease, he opened the back door and hunkered, instinctively positioning himself for cover behind the open door. He reached out and gripped the blanket, drawing it off Phoenix’s face. His captive glared at him, pupils dilating in the dark as they adjusted to the minimal light cast by the moon and stars and the overhead light in the car.

John held a finger up to his lips to signal silence, and Phoenix stared at him, lips bleeding sluggishly around the shape of the fabric gag. Holding his gaze, John slipped a knife out of his waistband and used it to cut the zip tie around his captive's ankles. Phoenix flexed his feet slowly, wincing as the blood rushed back into what had to be very numb flesh.

“Come on,” John snapped, grabbing the man by his bound hands and hauling Phoenix backwards out of the car. He came, stumbling, his legs unsteady. His feet caught on the frame before John could anticipate the snag, and they both tipped sideways as Phoenix fell. The trip likely saved John’s life, he thought seconds later, after he recovered from the shock of a bullet punching into the roof of the car where his head had just been.

John moved in a surge of action, dragging Phoenix with him as he skidded in the sand and around the car. He ducked down on the other side, breath hissing out through his teeth at the sound of bullets hammering the earth. Phoenix huffed through the gag and slipped to his knees when John tugged him down by a handful of his shirt.

“Don’t make a sound,” John whispered, staring hard into the man’s wide eyes. Phoenix nodded and went still as John shifted to press against the car. With his shoulder to Phoenix’s back, one hand still gripping his wrists, John drew his gun with the other and lifted slowly from his crouch to peer through the passenger-side window.

He caught the glow of muzzle fire and ducked down as the window shattered. The bullet thudded into the sand a few feet away while glass fell on them, and John bowed his head. He curled over the man at his side, an instinctive reaction to cover a civilian ingrained into him from his years serving. The sharp edge of a shard sliced his cheek. Another opened the flesh over his right collar bone, and John clenched his teeth together as he pushed Phoenix down into the sand.

Silence stretched out after the tinkle of broken glass dissipated, disrupted only by his own ragged breathing and the muffled sounds of Phoenix’s nasal exhales against the ground. With his heart thudding in his chest, John shifted and pulled the other man onto his side to let him breathe unimpeded, startled when a foot hooked around his leg and pulled.

He turned his head to glare and met sharp eyes below furrowed brows as Phoenix tugged again. As if trying to communicate something, he mouthed at the gag and jutted his chin out toward John, who stared. The request to remove the gag was obvious, and John weighed the pros and cons of such a choice even as he listened for continued fire.

In the end, the risk of his captive screaming seemed to pale in comparison to an unexpected ambush, and he reached out to loosen the knot and tug the fabric down around Phoenix’s neck.

After pausing to lick his bloodied lips and spit into the sand, Phoenix rasped, “It’s your employers.” At John’s doubtful stare, he shook his head. “I promise you that I’m right. I’m rarely wrong.” A brief, smug smirk before he added, “They’ll think I’ve told you something. Something they don’t want you to know. They likely thought you knew too much already and gave you this assignment as a means to an end.” Another small quirk of the lips, as if their current predicament was a source of amusement. “Two birds, one stone.”

A bullet ricocheted off the car’s frame, the shooter no doubt testing his ability to fire beneath the vehicle, and John grimaced. “What do I do?” he asked, tracing the hard metal of his handgun with a slow drag. Phoenix’s eyes darted down at the movement before returning to John’s face. This time, the small twitch crept into a full smile, hard and a little feral. The sight of it did something interesting to John’s stomach, and he cleared his throat as he focused on Phoenix’s fervid reply.

“Trust me.”

Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills, John’s narrowed and dubious, his captive’s sharp and persuasive. His breath coming loud and fast with adrenaline, John tried to weigh the benefits in a whiplash-fast decision.

In the end, it was easy. John was without allies. He was a man alone, his only chance for backup taking the form of a silver-eyed man with a cable tie digging into his wrists. With the only other option leaving John fighting his way out blindly, with little to no knowledge of his enemy, their numbers or tactics, he was between a rock and a hard place. His only choice was to go from the frying pan into the fire.

Holding Phoenix’s cutting stare, John nodded and jumped into the fire with both feet as he replied, “Okay.”


	3. An Unexpected Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock form a necessary alliance in the face of an unanticipated ambush. But will it last beyond their fight to stay alive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished NaNoWriMo early, and here I am, back in this universe! Still have a ways to go before the prequel for _Lean into a Loved Body_ is finished, so it might be a while before it shows up here on Ao3. In the meantime, I'm hoping to update this story and _Unfinished Business_ on a more regular basis. 
> 
> Enjoy some BAMF!boys, a bit of rising unresolved sexual tension, and mild angst.

With his eyes riveted to his captor’s face, Sherlock held his breath, waiting for an answer. The man was without allies, trapped in a situation he couldn’t hope to escape on his own. Short of sacrificing Sherlock and abandoning him here to certain death, he had no way out. And, looking back at everything he had deduced so far about the stranger, Sherlock felt confident his captor, despite his chosen work, possessed too strong of a moral compass to abandon him.

When the man finally nodded and breathed out a reluctant, “Okay,” Sherlock felt a surge of relief. Pressing his lips together, he resisted the urge to smirk and immediately rolled onto his stomach, wiggling his fingers.

“Cut my hands free,” he ordered, craning his neck to keep his face out of the sand. Though only seconds had passed since their unknown assailant fired the last shot, Sherlock could feel the unrelenting tick of time passing and knew they could only remain where they were for so long. When his captor didn’t respond, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, brows drawing downward in a frown.

The man’s expression was impassive. Only his narrowed eyes, raking over Sherlock’s face, gave away his reluctance to comply.

Huffing out an indignant breath, Sherlock said, “Look. I’m not much use to you with my hands bound. So you can either free me or take your chances on your own.” Eyes glittering, he jerked his head toward the hill where their unseen assailant lurked. “I doubt you’ll last long, but it’s your choice,” he snapped, watching uncertainty flicker over the man’s face.

His captor’s expression darkened at Sherlock’s tone, his decision evidently made under duress. Reaching out, he gripped Sherlock’s forearm and pulled a knife from his waist, using it to slice through the thick plastic of the cable tie. The release of constriction brought with it a rush of blood flow, the circulation spilling back into stiffened fingers and making Sherlock breathe a soft gasp at the sensation.

He stretched his knuckles and nodded to his captor. “Do you have another gun?” he asked, tilting his chin toward the handgun in the man’s hand. Another brief hesitation met his words before his captor seemed to shake it off and nodded jerkily.

“In the car.” His blue eyes darted to the handle of the passenger side door and the broken window, the edges of jagged glass reflecting the silvery light of the moon overhead. “There’s a bag on the seat.”

Nodding, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, pressed his teeth into his bottom lip, and made a split decision. Before his captor could speak again, and hopefully faster than their attacker could react, Sherlock rose to his feet and lunged for the broken window. To his dismay, his legs—still stiff and cramping from lying curled up on the floor of the backseat—sent him stumbling.

He heard the quiet catch of his captor’s breath and grabbed blindly for the window to regain his balance. His fingers found the frame, the rush of success cut short as the sharp edges of shattered safety glass sliced into his palm with sickening ease.

Face twisting into a grimace, Sherlock cursed under his breath but didn’t linger as he ducked into the car through the window. Glass scraped his front, snagging on his shirt and drawing blood on the skin beneath. Ignoring the sting, he ground his teeth together and reached, feeling for the bag half-blind in the dark.

His fingers, slick with blood, closed around a canvas strap, and he yanked. A bullet struck the other side of the car, cracking the glass of the driver’s side window. Wincing, Sherlock felt a hand grab hold of his hip and tug, pulling him back and down, the bag snagging on the window’s jagged frame before it came free and tumbled down into his lap as Sherlock landed in the sand.

Twisting to glare at his captor, Sherlock fell silent at the fierce look on the man’s face. There was blood on his cheek, still welling from a wound Sherlock could only assume had come from the window breaking, and the glass that had fallen upon them. Paired with the hard colour of the man’s eyes, the slow trickle of red made him look dangerous, roughened and battle-scarred.

The sight stole Sherlock’s breath for a second, and then the man was pawing at the bag in his lap, the metallic sound of the zipper loud in the dark.

Another bullet pounded into the sand just past Sherlock’s feet, making him hiss out a breath of surprise. Before he could linger on the moment, the sheer closeness of danger, his captor was forcing a gun into his hand.

“You know how to use this?” he asked in a voice turned hard by adrenaline. Raising his eyes from the handgun set against his fingers, Sherlock nodded. “Good,” the man said. He held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment longer, brow furrowed as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Then, he shook his head and drew the bag over his shoulder, pulling the zipper closed.

Drawing in a loud breath, the sound steady, the man set his back against the side of the car.

“We need to move.” Catching Sherlock’s startled look, his captor pressed his lips together. “We’re too obvious a target, and I can’t get a shot like this.”

“Cover,” Sherlock muttered, catching on. The man nodded, and Sherlock closed his eyes, brow creasing as he pictured what little of the terrain he’d glimpsed during their mad dash away from the first shot. Despite the dark, his memory still lit up with familiar clarity. “There’s a wall,” he said, eyes flashing open. His captor stared at him, mouth opening around his heavy breathing, tongue pressed to his bottom lip in a calculating expression.

Sherlock was expecting the question as it came, “How do you know?”

“I saw it,” Sherlock replied, eyes tracking over the desert stretching before them, analyzing how far the wall must be from their current position. “Small and crumbling, but large enough if we duck down.” His captor still looked skeptical. Scowling, Sherlock snapped, “You have a better idea?”

The reaction to his words was immediate, the man’s face closing off, his eyes hardening. But instead of retorting, he shook his head. “How far?” he asked.

“Maybe three meters, southwest from the front of the car.” He glanced that way, the man’s eyes following. Refusing to leave space for his captor to second-guess the plan, Sherlock added, “I’ll go first.”

Blue eyes flashed toward him, the man’s pale eyebrows lowering in a dubious expression. But yet again, he seemed willing to trust Sherlock. Or elected to do so over grappling with the unseen danger on his own. He nodded, the movement curt.

“Good.” Rolling his stiff shoulders, trying to force a facade of confidence he did not feel, Sherlock nodded back. “Cover me?” Another terse nod and Sherlock breathed out a rush of air to settle his nerves. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Body thrumming with anticipation, Sherlock closed his eyes in a brief plea that it wasn’t a mistake, placing trust in his captor. When he opened them again, he glanced toward the man to gauge his readiness. He saw nothing but firm resolve, a steely gaze, thin lips pressed into a line.

With a final thought for the unexpected turn his life had taken, Sherlock broke cover.

* * *

No part of John wanted to trust Phoenix, not here, with his life on the line. But, left with little choice, and reminding himself that his death also ensured Phoenix’s, John had little in the way of options. His leap of faith had to be enough because if it wasn’t, they’d both be dead, and John wouldn’t have to worry beyond the sensation of a bullet hammering into his body.

It wasn’t an experience he wished to repeat, and so he hoped Phoenix wouldn’t betray him, just as John’s employers had so clearly done.

All of this passed through John’s mind in a flash, taking only several seconds before Phoenix was up and moving, and John’s focus narrowed to the present moment. Everything fell away, the nucleus of his attention burning down to the fine details.

He saw the tension in Phoenix’s muscles before he erupted into movement and watched the subtle spray of sand kicked up by the man’s heel as he lunged forward. It was like John’s brain had slowed. The world dropped to a frame-by-frame observation with the sound of blood rushing in his ears, the pound of his heart nearly as loud as the sound of a shot being fired.

The bullet slammed into the sand just ahead of the car, seconds after Phoenix passed the spot, the sound sending John into immediate action. He launched himself forward, booted-feet pushing off the soft terrain. Moving alongside the car in three quick steps, he planted himself against the side of the front-end and set his elbows on the still-warm hood. Anchored, John caught the fading glow of heated metal in the distance, the dying flash from the fired shot.

Ducking his head, he looked through his gun’s sights, breathed a long, steadying breath, and fired. He didn’t stop to confirm a hit. Instead, he fired again, followed by another, the semi-automatic filling the hot, heavy air with the chatter of reports. His goal, to keep their attacker pinned down long enough to ensure Phoenix’s mad dash for cover, was simple. And, despite the surge of danger and the uncertainty that he wouldn’t take a bullet any second, John felt alive with adrenaline. He felt lit up, aglow with the sheer risk of the maneuver; transported back into the life he’d left behind when a bullet found its way into his shoulder.

He heard the report and braced for impact, huffing out a startled breath when the shot went wide. It told him their attacker was firing blind, no doubt from behind emergency cover, and John fired two shots in response. He managed one more before the slide jammed, the gun spitting out a casing as the cartridge emptied its last round.

John chanced a quick glance into the dark, eyes adjusting to the gloom long enough to confirm Phoenix was no longer in sight. Hoping he’d reached cover, John ducked down and delved into his back pocket for a spare magazine. He ejected the spent cartridge with deft fingers, exchanging the empty for the replacement, the click as it slid home loud in the sudden silence.

When he chanced a glance around the front of the car, pulse hammering wildly in his ears, a shot whistled past his face.

Cursing, John slid back and dropped low. He stared out into the dark, squinting until he caught a flash of pale skin: Phoenix’s hand, waving in the dark.

With a prayer dying on his lips, sent up to something unknown that John wasn’t sure he had ever bothered to believe in, he rolled to his feet and erupted from behind the cover of the car. For one tense, agonizing moment, he could hear nothing but silence, and felt a trickle of icy fear, thinking Phoenix had betrayed him. That he had left John to the mercy of their attacker instead of providing cover in his mad dash.

But the thought shattered seconds later as he caught the telltale sound of his second handgun, roaring in the dark ahead. Eyes locked on the muzzle flashes, John pushed forward. He ran, coaxing a burst of speed from his already aching legs. He felt a brief flash of pain, burning along his thigh like a brand, and pushed it aside. The injury barely made him falter, feet stuttering briefly with surprise before strengthening, and he knew it couldn’t be more than a graze.

The wall rose out of the dark, lit in brief flashes by Phoenix’s shots. Without bothering to slow, John skidded in the sand and threw himself behind the cover, his teeth bared in a feral grimace as particulate rubbed into his thigh and scraped the torn skin.

Silence fell, Phoenix skidding down beside him with his back against the wall. In the following quiet, the lull between storms, John’s breathing was loud, each exhale whistling through his teeth. Looking up, he saw Phoenix’s eyes on his face, dropping to his thigh before the skin between his brows creased.

“I’m fine,” John gasped, not bothering to wonder why he was reassuring a man he had, only minutes ago, planned to hand over for a job. Jaw clenched, John rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and said, “We need to take the shooter out, but there’s no way I can get a visual in the dark.” Fingers tightening around the stock of his handgun, he narrowed his eyes. “And I think this is the last full magazine I have on hand.”

Staring at Phoenix’s face, John expected to see dismay. Instead, what he saw inspired a dual sensation of grudging admiration and trepidation. Their gazes locked, and Phoenix didn’t wilt in the face of poor odds. His eyes took on a calculating gleam, turned silver in the dark and the moonlight, and John sucked in a breath when the man nodded.

“I have an idea.” Glancing briefly at the bag, Phoenix met John’s eyes again. “Do you have binoculars?” John nodded, dry lips parting around his loud breath as he waited to hear the plan. “Are they infrared?”

“Night vision,” John replied, relieved when his captive simply nodded.

“It’ll have to be enough. How good a shot are you?”

Mouth set into a hard, thin line, John’s eyes narrowed. “Pretty damn good.”

To his surprise, the corner of Phoenix’s lips twitched upward, the expression lending a sarcastic edge of mirth to his sharp face.

“Prove it.”

John’s hand tightened around the gun, a flicker of excitement rising in his stomach at the obvious challenge. “How?” he asked, head tilting to the side as his jaw ached with the force of his clenched teeth. “I just said it’s too dark to get a visual.”

“Do you trust me?” Phoenix asked, a hint of curiousity slipping into his voice.

Allowing himself a brief second of hesitation, considering the question, John pursed his lips. “I don’t _know_ you.” Brow furrowed, he amended, “No, I don’t. I don’t trust you.”

There it was again, that flicker of humour. It faded quickly, and Phoenix’s expression turned grim. “Will you try?” His tone was hard, earnest, something close to a plea beneath.

Despite his reluctance, the humming doubt suffusing his mind, John nodded. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Now, give me the binoculars.”

* * *

Sherlock could feel his captor’s uncertainty. It was thick, almost palpable between them, and it _rankled._ For most of his life, people had doubted Sherlock, second-guessed him, questioned his motives. Now, almost all of those people believed him to be dead, but now was hardly the time to dwell on whether they regretted their actions toward him.

At least here, his captor had every reason _not_ to trust Sherlock. Still, it stung. He could only hope that the immediate danger would suffice in keeping them allied and that the tenuous truce between them would last once their attacker fell dead into the sand.

Something pressed into his hand, and Sherlock shook his head, pushing his thoughts aside as he refocused. Fingers curling around the object, he looked down at the binoculars before his eyes darted to the man before him. His captor stared back, almost vibrating with the force of his obvious curiousity. It emanated from him in waves punctuated by the bitter tang of adrenaline sweat.

As if in sympathy, Sherlock’s pulse quickened. His gaze, inexplicably, dropped to the man’s thin lips, and he grimaced and redirected his attention.

“What now?” his captor asked, watching Sherlock’s face closely, clearly confused by Sherlock’s expression.

Forcing himself to settle, his internal dialogue spitting harsh rebukes for the lapse in focus, Sherlock said, “Since you can’t see,” he lifted the binoculars, unable to help the small upward curl of his lips, “I’ll be your eyes.”

His captor stared at him for a moment. It seemed likely he may continue to do so indefinitely when their attacker fired a shot. Listening to it disappear into the sand several feet away, Sherlock surmised the sniper was recalibrating for their new position. They had time, but not much, and Sherlock leaned forward, his voice dropping into a fierce whisper.

“You said you would try to trust me,” he hissed, pinning the man with a hard stare.

Something flickered in the man’s face, there and gone before his expression hardened, and he nodded. “Fine,” he bit out, lips tense as they shaped the word. “What do I do?”

“Face forward,” Sherlock ordered, shifting around behind the man as he complied with stiff posture. Every inch of the stranger broadcast his reluctance, his dislike of taking orders from someone he no doubt considered an enemy, but, still, he did as requested. “Take your position, but stay covered.”

The man complied, lifting the handgun as he adjusted his posture. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and looked back at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. Taking the silent query for what it was, Sherlock nodded and sidled closer. He pressed his front to the man’s back, doing his best to shape himself to the contours of his spine, the position of his arms.

Stiffening at once, the man moved as if to shift away, freezing only when Sherlock hissed, “Don’t move!” in his ear. The man fell still, his back rigid despite the hunched shape of his shoulders. Once he was motionless again, Sherlock breathed out and eased forward. His chest pressed against the rough terrain of the man’s spine, and he placed a hand on the man’s left shoulder. He felt a faint tensing at the contact and ignored it, sliding his palm down to the man’s bicep.

With his cheek brushing the curve of the man’s jaw, Sherlock breathed, “Relax.” The man only grunted in reply, but some of the rigidity in his posture eased. Holding back the inexplicable urge to smile, Sherlock resisted his wayward desire to squeeze the man’s bicep.

Instead, he lifted the binoculars, set his chin on the man’s right shoulder, and looked through them.

He fiddled with the focus on the side, scowling as he tried to engage the night vision mode. Before his lips could shape the question, he felt the man speak, his voice a rough murmur that made his cheek twitch against Sherlock’s. The contact was grimy, reminding Sherlock of the sticky blood covering the side of the man’s face.

“There’s a button on the top, in the middle.”

Tipping his head down in a curt nod, Sherlock found and pressed the button. He heard a quiet, mechanical whir before the desert flared into view around him, the dark painted a hazy green and black through the lenses. He sucked in a breath as his vision adjusted and thought he felt the man’s mouth twitch in a grin. Resisting the urge to check, Sherlock stared through the binoculars, working to get his bearings.

It took a moment, but then the hill filled his vision, and he breathed out in relief, searching for a flicker of movement, the flash of a rifle. Anything that might give their attacker’s position away. Still stiff from his cramped time spend in the back of the car, his legs twitched, forcing Sherlock to ignore the discomfort as he searched.

He saw nothing, then— _there._ A shift in the darkness.

Sherlock fiddled with the focus settings, zooming in and sharpening the image until he saw a shape.

“I see them,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His lips moved against the man’s ear, a point of unexpected movement that made his captor shiver, startled. He settled almost at once, nodding his head in a minute little movement. “Take your firing position,” Sherlock added, keeping the target carefully in sight. With his vision compromised, he relied on his other senses. He felt his captor’s arms lift, tracking the movement through the flex of muscles against his chest. The bicep under his hand rippled, long tendons adjusting. He rose into a straightened, upright crouch in time with his captor, and wondered if the man could feel the wild hammering of Sherlock’s heart where their bodies pressed together.

He hoped not before pushing the thought away and wondered why he cared.

Settled once again, the man breathed, “Show me where.”

Instead of replying in words, Sherlock bit his lip, making a series of mental calculations before he pressed forward to push the man’s body upward in inches. His hand tightened around the bicep in his grip, lifting the man’s arm and turning it slightly to the left with firm guidance.

Taking a second to tilt his head back from the binoculars, Sherlock confirmed his re-posturing, compared it to what he’d seen through the lenses, and nodded. Eyes back on the sniper, he whispered, “He should be in your sights.” Wetting his cracked lips, tasting the metallic tang of dried blood, Sherlock sighed out a shaky breath and urged, _“Fire.”_

The sudden tension in the muscles pressed against his chest was his first warning, followed by the tangible ripple of power in his captor’s shoulders. Gaze unblinking and fixated on the humanoid shape in the distance, Sherlock hardly dared to breathe as the shot rang out. He felt the kickback of the gun, translated through the man’s arm into his chest as a forceful vibration; felt the subtle shift as his captor absorbed the force, adjusted for the recoil. It was smooth, the reaction appearing instinctive, the man’s body working in tandem with the gun like a well-oiled machine.

Muscles loose, Sherlock let himself move with him. It was like being pulled by a current, but instead of tasting the salty haze of the sea in the air, Sherlock’s tongue burned with the acrid tang of gunpowder.

Before he could regain his composure, the gun went off again, creating the same chain of events, inspiring another wash of fluid reaction in the body against his. It was heady and stunning. Like standing at the edge of a burning fire, and it woke a heat in Sherlock’s body that burned low and deep.

Belatedly, he realized his breathing sounded ragged, and that the man was perfectly still, only the controlled rise and fall of his back as he breathed betraying him as living.

“Was it a hit?” the man asked, his voice tearing Sherlock from his swirling thoughts.

Dazed, still reeling from the heat pooling liquid and molten through his body, Sherlock pulled in an unsteady breath and peered through the binoculars. He didn’t see any movement, and the tension seeped from his stiff body.

“I think you got—” he began, but the end of his sentence disappeared into a curse as a shot rang out, and a bullet screamed past their hiding place. Sherlock felt the man flinch and stiffen and, for a second, he thought his captor must have missed. But then his brain settled, clarity prevailing over shock, and he realized the angle was different.

Teeth clicking together, he hissed, “There’s more than one!”

“Yeah, figured that out for myself, thanks,” came the sharp reply, and, before Sherlock could respond, the man was repositioning himself in the direction of the attack. “Tell me where to aim,” he demanded in a terse voice, and Sherlock responded without thought.

Sparing only a brief flash of annoyance for the inspired obedience, he repositioned himself behind the man. This time, after a momentary hesitation, he slid his hand off his captor’s bicep and over his chest, along his left _serratus anterior_ muscle. Beneath his palm, Sherlock felt the contractions of the man’s diaphragm, and he forced himself to focus on providing direction. The man stiffened slightly under the new point of contact, but Sherlock brushed the reaction aside.

“Take up your position,” he ordered, easing closer until his chest met the man’s hard back again. “On my mark.”

The man nodded and, sparing only a brief thought for the warmth of the body against his, Sherlock dropped his eyes back to the binoculars.

* * *

The sensation of a hand sliding around to his front, long fingers and palm settling hot over his ribs made John freeze. It took precious seconds for him to relax beneath the unexpected touch, breathing the tension out of his body with a heavy exhale that expanded his chest under Phoenix’s hand.

“Up,” Phoenix whispered in John’s ear, his voice low and velvet-thick. “A little higher.” John obliged, letting his arms drift upward. He heard a report in the distance and felt the force of the bullet passing half a foot away, barely registering the noise with Phoenix’s lips shaping the air into words next to his ear. If not for the adrenaline pouring fast and molten through his veins, John thought he might have shivered. There was a strange intimacy here, humming where their bodies touched, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Hardly twenty minutes ago, the man pressed up against his back had been nothing more than an impending pay cheque, and now here they knelt, stacked together like playing cards in a deck, Phoenix’s fingers hot and firm as they nudged into John’s muscle and directed his arm upward.

“Take the shot.”

The order was barely more than an exhale, and John complied. His finger curled, caressing the curved shape of the trigger like the hollow of a lover’s throat. Cold metal turned hot by his body heat, the kickback rocking him gently back against Phoenix’s chest. John’s eyes closed, and he considered forcing them open again, but something inside him, something innate and instinctive, told him the shot found its target.

The silence stretched out, turned thick and final until the absence of sound confirmed his suspicion. Like the slow collapse of a building struck by demolition charges, John sagged. The adrenaline ran out of him in a sprung leak, washing out of his body, leaving room for returning tension. With it came the awareness of pain, fire burning in his thigh and a sharp sting building in his cheek.

Lifting a hand, John touched the side of his face and recalled the sound of shattering glass. His fingers came away gluey with half-dried blood, and he grimaced before wiping them off on his thigh. He exhaled and felt Phoenix echo the sound in a soft rush of air against his nape, in the swell of his chest against John’s back as John lowered his arms.

“I think we’re clear.” The vibrations of tension still lingering in the air softened and seemed muted by John’s voice. Turning his face to the side, John found Phoenix close enough that his nose brushed along the man’s sharp jaw, and John froze.

This close, Phoenix’s eyes, locked with his, were a shimmering glimmer in the dark, silver and bright like the moon overhead. After a second of breathless tension, John faced forward, a muscle jumping in his jaw as his teeth came together with a hard click.

“Thanks,” he said, the word roughened by the unexpected rush of emotions falling over him. When he’d woken that morning, John had a job. Now, with the night stretching out before him, he was a changed man. A stranger to himself, unmoored and untethered with a dangerous unknown pressed up against his back. It felt similar to the months of recovery after his injury, like that limbo between life and death, and John found little comfort in the parallel.

He shifted forward into the scarce space between himself and the wall, suddenly desperate for any space he could gain between himself and Phoenix. As if picking up on John’s discomfort, the man at his back rocked backward, moving so quickly that he dropped onto his rear. If Phoenix hadn’t been a complete stranger, John might have laughed.

Instead, he rose, turned, and held out a hand to Phoenix. The man glanced at the offering before moving as if to reach out and take his hand. John drew it back at the last second and said, in a hard voice, “Give me the gun.”

Phoenix froze with his arm still outstretched. Seated in the sand, he stared up at John with a stunned expression, and his eyes roved over John’s face. When the silence drew out, the two of them locked in a silent stare-down, John pulled in a steadying breath and raised his own gun. Holding it steady, he pointed it down at the face of the man sprawled at his feet.

“The gun,” he repeated firmly, tone offering little in the way of mercy. _“Now.”_

Still studying John’s face, his eyes betraying his surprise, Phoenix didn’t move for what felt, to John, like a nearly endless moment. Then, with marked reluctance, Phoenix slipped the gun out of the waistband of his trousers and held it out in silent surrender.

Reaching out, John took the gun, keeping his own steady, still aimed at his captive. Once he had the weapon in hand, he engaged the safety and slipped it into his own waistband. The metal was still warm from Phoenix’s body heat, and John resolutely ignored that fact as he jerked his gun upward.

“Get up,” he ordered, waiting until Phoenix complied. With the man on his feet, John nodded toward the car. “Get in the passenger seat. And don’t try anything.”

The look shot his way could have struck a weaker man dead, but Phoenix followed his orders, walking to the rental in sullen silence. John followed with the gun trained on Phoenix’s back, keeping enough distance between them so he would see an attack coming.

But Phoenix didn’t attempt any of his earlier tricks. Under John’s watchful eye, he opened the passenger-side door, carefully plucked broken glass from the seat, and slipped inside.

Only once Phoenix buckled his seatbelt, sitting stiffly, did John cross to the driver’s door. He slipped inside, gun still in hand, and started the engine. The car rumbled to life without fail, and, avoiding Phoenix’s hard stare, John looked over his shoulder and turned the car back toward the road.


	4. Not Asking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally hears Sherlock's story, and Sherlock tries to gain the upper hand in their dynamic.

His captor drove in silence. Staring out the windshield, wind from the broken window blowing his stiff, sweaty curls back from his forehead, Sherlock tried to make sense of the complex wash of emotions swirling within his head. The adrenaline from the attack was long gone, faded and leaving him feeling exhausted and on-edge. His certainty and hope from earlier, that their truce would outlive the adrenaline rush of immediate danger, fizzled the moment his captor pointed a gun at him.

Sherlock thought he’d earned the man’s trust. After all, he’d done everything in his power to ensure they both escaped death more or less intact. Now, feeling his cut hand pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat, Sherlock realized he’d made a naive mistake.

Clearly, his captor's trust was not easily gained nor kept.

He glanced at the man, taking mental notes of his injuries. The cut on his face no longer bled, and there was a sticky, red mess gluing his shirt to his chest. Sherlock’s eyes dropped to his lap, lingering on the wound on his left thigh. It still bled, albeit sluggishly, and, aside from a faint grimace on his captor’s face, it seemed to go largely unnoticed.

“Why are you staring at me?”

The sound of the man’s voice, tense and a little irritated, made Sherlock jolt in surprise. Wetting his lips, he tried to speak, rasped and cleared his throat as he tried again, “You’re hurt.”

An odd emotion passed over the man’s face, but his eyes stayed staring forward. In gradual increments, his expression smoothed out, leaving him blank once more. “I’m fine.” A brief pause followed the statement before he sighed and admitted, “I’ve had worse.”

Eyes flickering over his body, Sherlock couldn’t help but believe him.

They lapsed into silence again, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts. Watching the dark desert terrain pass by, he wondered what would happen to him. They were no longer on their way to a drop site, not now that his captor’s employers saw him as a liability. The metaphorical hatchet blade hung over both their necks.

There was no going back for either of them.

In spite of the shared danger, Sherlock found it hard to believe they might form an alliance. His captor had already proven himself unreliable, rescinding his promise to trust Sherlock the second the immediate danger dissipated.

The man’s distrust of him rankled, and Sherlock turned toward him with anger in his voice, snapping, “You said you would try to trust me.”

If his words startled the man, it didn’t show.

“I did,” he said carefully, eyes remaining on the road. His posture stiffened, body betraying some hidden internal tension. “We survived, didn’t we?” Glancing toward Sherlock, his gaze turned evaluating before shifting back to the road. “I didn’t say I’d trust you beyond that.”

Rather than validate the statement with a reply, Sherlock sank into a sullen silence. The lull stretched out into minutes, and he assumed the man had finished his little lecture. But, to Sherlock’s surprise, he spoke again.

“Why does it matter?” There was an odd note in his voice, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying the man’s profile.

“Because if you won’t trust me, I can’t trust you.”

The man snorted. “That’s some flawed logic, right there.”

Sherlock scowled. “How so?”

Another glance his way, this one longer, the man searching his expression until he turned his focus back to the road. “Because you _shouldn’t_ trust me.”

Stiffening at the statement, Sherlock huffed out an unsteady breath. “Why not?”

The man made an incredulous sound, fingers tightening on the steering wheel as he shot Sherlock a stunned look. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can, and I am,” Sherlock shot back.

To his surprise, the man snorted in a fit of dark humour. “Then you’re stupider than I thought.”

Sherlock bristled at the insult, his shoulders rising in a defensive stance. His hands curled into fists, only for him to wince and force them open as fresh blood welled up from the gash in his palm. The pain helped clear the hazy confusion blurring his thoughts, and Sherlock shook his head in frustration. He saw the man glancing at him with reluctant curiousity but held his silence until the throb of pain in his hand died down to a dull growl.

“Doesn’t matter,” he finally said, scowling out the window with a rising sense of defeat.

As if unable to help himself, the man asked, “What doesn’t matter?”

“Any of it.”

Ignoring the confused eyes on him, Sherlock refused to speak again, and they both lapsed back into silence. He sat rim-rod straight and unmoving until the man flipped on his turn signal and abruptly pulled off the highway and onto a track that was more dirt than a dedicated road.

Bemused, Sherlock waited as his captor drove the car away from the roadway and into an open space. He looked around with a growing sense of fear, wondering if this was it, the end of him. If this was where his captor would finally put a bullet in his body and leave Sherlock for the carrion birds and the scavengers.

Dimly, he thought about whether anyone would ever find his body. Even worse, he wondered if anyone would even bother to look. Most people already thought him dead, leaving the list of those who knew he was alive short.

Sherlock didn’t want to look too closely at those names, lest he realize that not a single person on that list would bother to mourn him.

“What is this?” he demanded, trying to redirect his confusion with a rush of ire. He looked out the windows with a growing sense of unease, his hands curling together in a tense knot within his lap. “Another drop site? Was all that, the shooter, the ambush — was it all just a setup to throw me off?”

“No.” The man sounded perfectly calm. He didn’t bother to validate Sherlock’s other questions with a response. Instead, he shifted the car into park, cut the engine, and drew the gun from his waistband. In one smooth, fluid movement, he twisted in his seat and levelled it at Sherlock.

His mouth fell open, lips sticky with dried blood and aching from the dry air as Sherlock stared into the black eye of the muzzle. “What is this?” he asked, the question emerging as a hoarse croak of surprise.

Seeing that he had Sherlock’s attention, the man looked back at him over the gun. His gaze turned hard but remained level as his eyes darkened. “Now,” he stated in a slow voice, fingers stretching and resettling on the weapon, nail brushing the trigger, “tell me who you are.”

* * *

Phoenix stared at John over the gun. There was a look of shock written across his angular face, widening his eyes. But, gradually, the surprise faded, his vibrant gaze hardening as a sharp, calculating expression took its place.

“Who are you?” John said, rewording his demand. He cleared his throat and tightened his hold on the gun, leaning forward with deadly intent rippling through his body. “Why do they want you dead?” At the continued silence, he growled, “Tell me.”

That calculating look persisted, Phoenix studying him like John was a bug pinned beneath the slide of a microscope, something to be analyzed and picked apart. It was an unsettling thought, and John bared his teeth as he tried to shake it off.

 _“Now,”_ he said, an audible warning edging into the command.

One thin eyebrow lifted, and, in a voice that belied the tension ticking along the line of Phoenix’s jaw, John’s captive said, “What if I don’t want to? Why should I give up my secrets just because you asked?”

Briefly taken aback by the boldness of a man with no chance at an upper hand to speak of, John scowled. “Because I’m not asking.” Something in his tone must have gotten through to Phoenix because the man blanched before his expression smoothed out with visible effort.

Eyes darting out the window, toward the dark, Phoenix asked, “What if they’re following us?” He looked back at John, lips pressing into a thin line. “The car could have a tracker.”

“Of course it has a tracker,” John snapped, holding the gun tighter as annoyance flashed through him. Did Phoenix think he was stupid? If so, he was in for a surprise. “All rentals do. But we’ve got time.”

“How can you be—” Phoenix began, only for John to interrupt him in a low growl.

“We’ve got time.”

Silence lapsed between them, Phoenix’s lips turning white with the force of how hard he pressed them together. His expression was a mixture of disdain and hesitation, and it was just as John narrowed his eyes and drew in a breath that Phoenix spoke.

“How much do you already know about me?” Something in the way he asked the question made John take his time considering an answer before he replied.

“Not much,” he admitted, thinking back to the flash drive where he’d first viewed the man sitting across from him. Phoenix’s face was in shadow, the moon struggling to illuminate his features through the windshield. It made his expression hard to read and set John on edge. “You’re dangerous.”

The corner of Phoenix’s lips twitched upward in a brief half-smirk, there and gone, fleeting before it disappeared. “So everyone believes.” Breathing a sigh, Phoenix raised his brows at the gun. “Do you really have to point that in my face?”

“Only for as long as you’re speaking,” John said through his teeth.

“It’s a long story.”

John scowled. “You better talk quickly, then.”

The threat earned him an eye roll. “Glad to see you’re a man of reason,” Phoenix said, sounding exasperated. 

“Hey,” John growled, tilting forward to tap the gun against the man’s cheek, “I’m not playing games. Do you understand? Tell me who the fuck you are before I decide it’s too much bother to keep you alive, yeah?”

A glimmer of unease passed through Phoenix’s eyes, but his voice was a deceptively calm drawl as he replied, “Charming.”

John opened his mouth to voice another warning, but Phoenix seemed to take him at face value finally. Pausing only to lean back and gain space from the gun pressed to his cheek — the muzzle left an angry red circle on his skin — he folded his hands in his lap and frowned down at them.

“Before everything fell apart, I was a consulting detective.”

“A what?” John interrupted, his confusion making him speak up. Phoenix glanced his way with a raised eyebrow. “You were a detective?”

“A _consulting_ detective,” Phoenix corrected. He straightened in his seat, and John glimpsed an enduring spark of pride in the man’s posture.

“Okay, but what is that?” John asked, still confused. “Like a private eye?”

Shooting him a disgusted look, Phoenix scoffed, “Hardly. Throughout my life, I studied the science of criminality. Made a science of solving cases and reading the nuances of crime scenes. Over time, I gained such knowledge that I could — _can —_ solve almost any case.”

John made a sound of dismissive disbelief. “You’re having me on.”

His scowl deepening, Phoenix snapped, “This will take much longer if you keep interrupting, and I’d rather not have a gun pointed in my face for an extended period of time. Now, _if_ _you don’t mind.”_ He closed his mouth hard enough that John heard his teeth click together.

Feeling a flash of amusement at Phoenix’s peevish command, John nodded and subsided.

Eyes back on his lap, his expression flickering between reluctance and frustration, Phoenix began his story.

“It started with a case.” He glanced John’s way as if checking he was paying attention. At John’s small, stiff nod, he went on. “Serial suicides. The victims were found in strange, abandoned places, having ingested some kind of poison.”

“Victims?” John repeated, interrupting despite his intention to remain silent. “Are they still victims if it’s suicide?” The look Phoenix shot him could have curdled milk, and John pursed his lips. “Unless…”

“Unless they weren’t suicides,” Phoenix finished, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a brief smirk before his lips flattened into a grim line. “And they weren’t. But Scotland Yard was no closer to that realization than the media. So they came to me.”

Phoenix paused, frowning out at the dark through the windshield. John waited with growing impatience. The gun remained raised even as he tilted forward with the eager need to hear more.

“It was a cabbie,” Phoenix said in an odd voice. A wistful, hazy expression filtered over his face, turning his eyes dark. “Who hides in plain sight?” he murmured before shaking himself out of his reverie. He looked at John, eyes narrowing slightly. “He came to me, said that someone had set the entire thing up with me in mind. A _fan,_ he said. Those people, they died because someone took an interest in my work. Someone who saw people as nothing more than pieces on a game board, pieces to be moved and used and discarded as needed.” Once again, Phoenix looked away, a muscle jumping in his jaw as his teeth clenched together. When he spoke, his words sounded stiff and stilted. “I took a risk, and I was lucky. The cabbie — his name was Jeff Hope — asked me to play a game with him. To deduce which of the pills he offered me were poisonous and to take whichever I chose. I agreed.”

“What?” John interrupted, startled by the direction of the tale. “You _what?”_

Glancing John’s way with his eyes carefully avoiding the gun, Phoenix offered a smile that was utterly without humour. “I said it was a risk,” he replied in a flat tone. “But I took it anyway. And I got lucky. I took the right pills.” Gaze drifting away, he sighed. “What I didn’t realize was that moment, with Hope, the serial suicides, the pills, it was just the beginning. I didn’t know — how _could_ I?” The look he turned to John was almost desperate, his tone holding a slight plea as if begging John, a stranger, to understand. “I couldn’t know what I’d set in motion by letting myself play the game. But I was bored. I was so deeply, incredibly _bored_.” Shaking his head, Phoenix lapsed into a pensive silence.

John stared at him, unsettled by the fervent admission. The silence stretched out until he cleared his throat and broke it.

“What happened after?”

Forehead creasing as he wrinkled his nose, Phoenix faced the windshield and picked up the line of his story in a dull voice. The sudden display of apathy caught John off-guard, and he nervously shifted his hold on the gun.

Phoenix didn’t seem to notice.

“In his dying moments, Jeff Hope gave me a name. I forced it from him. I… I hurt him.” Phoenix’s lips pursed as if trying to pull back the words even though they’d already escaped. Shaking his head, he said, “Moriarty. The name he gave me was Moriarty.”

The name twigged something in John’s memory, and he flashed back to earlier. “Hold on. That’s the name you said to me.”

Phoenix nodded. “Yes.” Eyes narrowed, he turned his head, and that razor-sharp gaze raked over John. It felt like Phoenix was flaying away flesh and bone to see deep within him, to see right down to his core, to the truth he sought. It was just as unnerving now as before. “But you don’t know the name, do you?”

Slowly, John shook his head. “Never heard it before.”

“Interesting.”

“Why?” John asked, wetting his dry lips with a nervous sweep of his tongue. “Why would I know who that is?”

“Was,” Phoenix corrected, almost absently. “And because he was, in some capacity, your employer. But he’s dead now.”

John rolled his shoulders and stretched some of the tension from his body as he turned the words over in his head. “What happened?” A thought occurred, and he asked, “Did you kill him?”

“No.” Hands twisting in his lap, Phoenix blew a gust of air from between his tight lips. “He killed himself. And then…” Phoenix’s forehead creased, and he paused, hesitating.

“And then?” John prompted, impatient for the answer.

Turning to look him in the eye, Phoenix took another deep breath and said, “And then, I died.”

* * *

Sherlock’s admission faded into the air between them and set John's curiousity buzzing.

“What the hell does that mean?” his captor demanded, forehead creased by his non-plussed expression. “You look pretty damn alive to me.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upward into an automatic smile. “He framed me,” he said as if the answer was that simple. In a way, it was. “Moriarty. When push came to shove, he made me the villain. All while I thought we were still playing the game and didn’t realize that I’d already lost.”

“Explain.”

That slight smile still lingered on his lips, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the gun. Locked in a one-sided staring contest with the unblinking eye of the muzzle, he said, “By the time I realized what the endgame was, it was too late to change the trajectory of our last stand. So, with my older brother, who is effectively the British government, I devised a plan.”

Brow still furrowed, the man’s tongue darted into the corner of his mouth in a pensive expression. “Which was?”

Raising his eyes from the gun, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “We let Moriarty think he’d won.”

“How?”

Sherlock sighed. “We knew Moriarty planned to discredit me — planned to _burn me_ , he said. He wanted to invalidate my work and place the blame for his crimes on me. He was very convincing, concocted an entire story where he was an actor I hired to play my enemy. Someone to make me look smart. That I faked all the solved crimes to impress people and make a name for myself.” A dry chuckle escaped Sherlock. Despite everything, he still couldn’t shake his vague, begrudging sense of respect for Moriarty’s mastery of the game. “At that point, my brother and I had little choice but to go along with it, to make Moriarty think he’d succeeded. When the time came for our last meeting, Moriarty asked me to meet him on the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital.”

“Wait.” There was a flicker of recognition in his captor’s blue eyes. “I know Bart’s. I went there for my medical degree.”

Startled by the revelation, Sherlock blinked slowly. “Interesting,” he said, wondering at the connection. “But utterly irrelevant to the story.” Fixing his captor with a sharp eye, he snapped, “Do stop interrupting.”

Sighing, the man silently gestured with the gun for Sherlock to continue. Gathering his thoughts, Sherlock did.

“When I went to meet Moriarty on the roof, my brother and I already had several plans in place. But Moriarty surprised both of us again. He threatened my landlady, the DI I worked with at NSY. To make sure I couldn’t call off the shooters planted to kill them, Moriarty ate a bullet from his own gun.”

“He killed himself?” The question sounded incredulous, his captor forgetting Sherlock’s request for silence.

“Indeed.” Eyes closing, Sherlock could still picture the spray of blood and bone and brain matter, the report of the gun as it fired.

Moriarty’s wide, staring eyes as the light dimmed from his mad gaze.

He shook himself and forced his eyes back open, upper lip curling at the memory. “He was always one step ahead of me,” Sherlock admitted with bitter reluctance. “Even there, at the end, I misjudged his dedication to the game. I always thought I was an excellent player. The best.” Shaking his head, his hands curled into claws, and he scowled. “All along, I thought Moriarty was my counter piece, the opposite player. I failed to see that he was really the creator of the game itself.”

“Christ,” came the soft response. Glancing at the man, Sherlock saw his eyes were wide and his lips were turned down at the corners in a grimace. “Sounds like he was insane.”

“He was,” Sherlock agreed, once more looking at the gun with faint unease as an idea occurred. “I just never realized _how_ insane. Not until it was too late.”

The quiet spread between them as Sherlock let his captor contemplate his story. He appeared lost in thought, and Sherlock eyed the gun, letting a tenuous plan take hold. It was a bit insane, but Moriarty had been mad and still bested Sherlock.

Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea, doing something insane when backed into a corner with no way out.

Before he could put his plan into action, his captor asked, “What happened then?”

Shrugging, Sherlock tipped his head to the side. “I faked my death. My brother helped.” It felt like a weight lifted off at the words. For so long, two years too long, he’d carried that secret. He was a man erased from the living world, effectively a ghost, and there was a strange relief in admitting who he really was.

Who he had been and no longer was, and hoped to be again.

“Why?” his captor asked, dumbfounded. The question made Sherlock blink, bringing him back to the present moment. A flicker of wry amusement passed over his face.

“To save lives,” he said simply. “To disappear and clear my name.” He shot the man a calculating look, studying his expression for a moment before he said, “My being dead keeps others safe. It gives me free rein to hunt down Moriarty’s network.”

A troubled expression on his face, the man repeated, “Network?”

Sherlock nodded. “Moriarty was a spider. He wove a web in the form of a massive crime syndicate that spanned several continents and multiple levels of crime. By faking my death, I have the perfect cover to unravel the strands.” Shooting his captor a glare, he added, “I was nearly finished when you caught up with me.”

The man dared to smirk at that, but there was little humour in the expression. “I was just doing my job,” he said, returning Sherlock’s glare with one of his own. “It’s hardly my fault you made enough noise that they noticed you. Also, they know you’re alive.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Obviously, otherwise they wouldn’t have sent you after me.” Eyes narrowed, he scanned the man’s body language and saw nothing but confident readiness. “But I’m curious why you think that. Did it say so in my file?”

“No.” A flicker of amusement curled the edges of the man’s mouth. “It was the codename they gave you. Didn’t make much sense to me at the time, but it does now, having heard your story.”

Intrigued, Sherlock leaned forward. He hoped the movement made him look attentive, rather than what it actually was — an attempt to get closer.

“What is it?” he asked, curious despite himself. “My codename. What is it?”

His amusement lingering, the man said, “Phoenix.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in reluctant respect. “The mythological creature that rises from the ashes. How… fitting.”

“Sounds like it,” came the agreement.

A tenuous sense of connection stretched out between them, and Sherlock felt a twinge of faint regret for what he was about to do. His actions would inevitably shatter any chance for a truce. But opposite the tentative potential for camaraderie was Sherlock’s hope for freedom, and that far outweighed any chance of him pulling his punches.

Still leaning toward his captor, Sherlock shifted his weight forward in a minute movement that, thankfully, seemed to go unnoticed. Just as he was about to make his move, his captor spoke again, and Sherlock froze.

“But why do they want to kill me? How does that fit into all of this?”

Stiffening at the question, realizing he didn’t have a proper answer, Sherlock shrugged, desperate to keep the man’s attention on him and off the gun. “I can only assume they think I’ll have compromised your loyalty or told you something they don’t want you to know. That, or you’ve ceased to be an asset for them, and this was just the first convenient chance to take you out.” He tilted his head in a moment of dark humour. “As I said — two birds, one stone.”

The man’s lips pursed, a scowl spreading over his face and deepening into a fierce grimace. The expression made Sherlock fight back a shiver. He looked dangerous again, a far cry from the man who had hung on his every word moments ago. He truly looked like what he was: a trained killer and Sherlock’s captor.

When he spoke, it was in a nearly indistinct murmur, as if to himself, “Why is nothing ever easy?” He lifted a hand from the gun and rubbed it over the lower half of his face, palm rasping against a few day’s worth of stubble.

Taking advantage of the lapse in focus, Sherlock lunged forward, grabbing for the gun. His hands closed around the muzzle, but the man moved faster than Sherlock could have anticipated.

Lightning-quick, he rocked forward, free hand catching Sherlock by the throat in an unyielding grip. There was nothing tentative about the hold, his thumb pressing into Sherlock’s carotid artery with sickening precision. If Sherlock had forgotten the man’s frightening duality, with his training as both a seasoned killer and a doctor with an impressive knowledge of anatomy, the pressure on his windpipe reminded him in an instant.

“Don’t,” the man snapped, though Sherlock refused to let go of the gun. He maintained his grip even when the hold on his throat tightened, constricting his airway and the flow of blood to his brain. His blatant act of defiance inspired a grudging smile from his adversary, and there was a note of admiration in his voice as the man said, “You really have no sense of self-preservation, do you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You sound like my brother.” Words were hard, but he forced them out as a wheeze against the pressure on his throat.

The statement seemed to catch the man off-guard, yet his grip didn’t loosen. “I can’t believe someone like you has something as normal as an older brother.”

Scoffing, Sherlock snapped, “Of course I do. They didn’t make me in a lab.” His throat started to ache, the weight of the man’s fingers sinking against his trachea.

To Sherlock’s surprise, his retort inspired a low bark of amusement. The grip on his throat softened, and the gun twisted beneath his grasp. It slipped free from Sherlock’s fingers, and an open palm hit his chest. The blow forced the air from his lungs and pushed him back into the door. Sherlock flinched and failed to catch himself before his head met the door frame with a harsh _crack_.

Vision swimming, the edges of his sight threatening to burn black, Sherlock blinked, dazed.

“I don’t envy your brother,” his captor said with wry, brutal honesty.

* * *

With Phoenix momentarily subdued, John considered his options. Having heard the man’s story, he felt his perspective shifting, but toward what he didn’t know. The sheer amount of information sat heavily in his mind.

Phoenix’s tale was almost too wild to believe, yet John found that he did. Looking at Phoenix as he spoke, listening to him explain the chain of events that lead to him becoming John’s target, John couldn’t help but take him at his word.

Still, it was a lot to take in. He needed time to process the tale in full, but now hardly seemed the opportune moment. Because Phoenix was right: John’s employers could easily track the rental, and they couldn’t remain here indefinitely. They needed to disappear, and the longer they sat here and talked, the higher the risk of pursuit grew. They were sitting ducks, and that knowledge sat uneasily beneath John’s skin. It felt like a hatchet hung over Phoenix’s head and, by extension, John’s.

They needed to move, needed to disappear, and that wouldn’t happen with them sitting here any longer than necessary.

Coming to a decision, John looked at Phoenix and tried not to let the faint stirrings of pity he felt at the man’s dazed expression grow into anything more. He managed, but only just. In all honesty, he felt a grudging flicker of respect for Phoenix’s bold — if utterly insane — bid for the gun.

Clearing his throat, John opened his mouth to speak. Phoenix beat him to it.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asked, rapidly blinking his dazed eyes. A small trickle of blood ran down the side of his neck, no doubt from where his head connected with the door. John pushed back a flicker of guilt at the sight. He hadn’t intended to use such force, but it was too late to dwell on the past.

Instead, he focused on answering the question. “Well, I can’t just let you go, can I?”

There was an obvious challenge in Phoenix’s reply. “Why not?” His voice was rough from John’s assault, bruises in the shape of fingers already rising on his pale skin.

John shook his head. “If you can’t figure that out, you’re not nearly as smart as my employers think you are.” After a moment of consideration, he amended, _“Ex-_ employers.”

His voice turning sour and sharp, Phoenix snapped, “So, now what? Are you going to kill me?”

Taken-aback by the blunt question, John hesitated before answering. He considered it, knowing it wouldn’t be his first kill — far from it. But, ultimately, he realized he didn’t want to kill Phoenix. He didn’t know exactly what to do with him, but killing him didn’t seem like the right move.

Finally, John sighed and said, “No.”

Phoenix pursed his lips and scowled. “Then _what?”_

Shoulders lifting in a small shrug, John admitted, “I don’t know. Yet.” He winced at the honesty of his words. It was unlike him, not having a plan, and it had him on edge. He needed to establish his next steps, and John had never enjoyed thinking on his feet. Improvisation was too chancy, left too much room for mistakes.

He needed a plan, and he needed one _now._

Phoenix’s scowl deepened at John’s words, his eyebrows dropping low over his steely eyes. When he spoke, he almost sounded offended by John’s lack of foresight. “What do you mean, you _don’t know?”_ John didn’t reply, and Phoenix made a soft, snarling noise of frustration. “So I’m just your… what? Your _prisoner,_ until you figure out what to do with me?”

John shrugged again, forced to admit that was exactly the situation. “Guess so,” he said.

Phoenix’s expression turned thunderous. His posture went stiff, his mood dark and sulkily palpable before he looked away and glared out the window. “Great,” he muttered in a flat voice. “Chained to yet another idiot.”

“Stick and stones,” John replied, unperturbed by the man’s venom. “Now, come on.” He waved at the passenger-side door with the gun. “Get out of the car.”

Eyes narrowed, Phoenix didn’t move.

Huffing an exasperated growl through his teeth, John snapped, “When I tell you to move, you _move.”_

Despite the warning in John’s voice, Phoenix didn’t so much as shift a muscle. He held his ground, chin lifting in a blatant attempt to stare John down. “How do I know you won’t just shoot me in the back the second I turn away?”

Instead of bowing beneath his captive’s stab at intimidation, John’s jaw clenched. Hand tightening on the gun, he pushed his reply out through bared teeth. “You don’t. I guess you’ll have to trust me.”

The sound Phoenix made in response was harsh and dismissive. “Oh, _I_ should trust _you?_ ” He snorted, shooting John a furious glare. “That’s rich.”

“I trusted you when you asked me to, didn’t I?” John snapped, piqued by his words.

Phoenix eyed him with evident disdain, his upper lip curling back in a sneer. “Right up until you pointed a gun at me.”

“Look,” John growled, his patience snapping, “I don’t _know_ you. Until tonight, you were just another target in a long line of jobs. Now I’m stuck with you, never mind how little I want to be. There are, no doubt, some highly-skilled people on our tail, and I don’t know if I can trust you. You can’t blame me for being cautious.”

The look aimed his way seemed to say Phoenix could, and would, do just that.

Sighing and still feeling worked up, John hissed, “And, if I wanted to shoot you in the back, I’d have bloody well _done it already.”_ His thumb slid upward, cocking the gun. The sound was loud in the small space between them, and something that looked like apprehension tightened Phoenix’s posture. “Now. Get out of the goddamn car.”

To his relief, Phoenix complied, though he dawdled. Lifting his long legs and swinging them to the side, he opened the door and slipped out, muttering, “I see you have deep-seated trust issues. How dull.”

Exiting the car, John lifted the gun and aimed it at Phoenix over the hood, his expression stiff. “Shut it.”

Phoenix shot him a bitter look but subsided without further comment.

With his gun trained on the man’s back, John said, “Let’s go. And don’t try anything or, I swear to god, I _will_ shoot you.”

“Whatever you say, _Captain,”_ Phoenix said scornfully. Despite his attempt at feigned ambivalence, John saw the darkening of his eyes, the flicker of fear in his expression, and knew Phoenix wouldn’t test him again.

Not for a while, at least. John wasn’t stupid enough to believe his captive trusted him, but he knew what fear-driven compliance looked like, and he saw signs of it written all over Phoenix.

He just hoped it would last long enough for him to figure out their next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aiming to update this at least once a week, maybe twice if possible. But don't hold me to that.


	5. Pissing Contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trekking through the desert, John and Sherlock both continue to fight for the upper hand. 
> 
> Just as Sherlock reaches the limits of his energy, they find respite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I meant to have this finished two days ago, but then I realized I had no idea where they were. As a result, I was bogged down with geographical research for the better half of the past day and a bit. I now know a lot about travel routes in Morocco (and also that there's a restaurant called 'happy soup man' in Chefchaouen. 
> 
> Also, um, heed the title and beware of men pissing in the desert (no, not on each other, and no, not in an actual pissing contest. Just... just read it, yeah?). Just know I didn't plan for this chapter to be like this at all, so you can blame all the ridiculous posturing on these dumb boys.

The night was beginning to fade toward early morning, the sky lightening in the distance in slow increments as the inky, star-dotted horizon brightened into a rich, dark blue.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder where his captor walked a few steps behind him. His hair was lit by the oncoming dawn, the sweat-darkened strands cast into gold and silver. The gun was out of sight, but the man’s arm sat strangely at his side, and Sherlock could easily imagine the weapon still aimed at his back.

The canvas bag hung over one shoulder, swinging slowly with each step. Sherlock eyed it and wondered if he was brave enough to make a grab for it, and the spare handgun inside.

As if catching onto his half-formed plan, the man narrowed his eyes and gripped the strap tighter. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re going that way,” he said in reply to Sherlock’s question, waving forward. His voice was brusque, effectively ending the conversation. 

Facing forward again, Sherlock scowled. “How informative,” he muttered to himself before wincing at the throbbing pain lingering in his skull. When the man slammed Sherlock’s head against the window, the force had scrambled Sherlock’s brain, and the aftereffects had yet to dissipate. As such, his head throbbed. Combined with his other injuries, he found he felt foggy. He could only imagine that his captor was suffering just as much, with his various wounds.

Curious, Sherlock shot another glance at him over his shoulder.

If he felt the weight of his injuries, the man didn’t let it show. He walked with a measured pace, his gait reminiscent of a soldier’s march. His expression appeared impassive, his back straight, and there was barely a limp when he stepped with the leg injured by the grazing bullet.

Looking at him, Sherlock had to admit the man exuded tenacity. No doubt, his stubborn, stiff-upper-lip personality was a powerful part of what made him good at his work, and once brought success as a soldier. However, whether or not he could out-stubborn Sherlock was something that remained to be seen. Part of Sherlock hoped he would prove far more unshakeable, but another part, one that surprised even him, realized he held an unexpected desire to have met his match.

With his lips pressed together in a hard line, Sherlock shook the yearning away. In all his life, the only person who ever came close to matching him was his older brother, and Sherlock would rather die than admit that to anyone — least of all Mycroft himself.

A low, heavy growl deep in his stomach drew him from his musings. Pressing a hand to his stomach, Sherlock grimaced. It had been ages since he last ate, ingesting no more than water, and barely enough at that. In the heat of danger, buoyed by adrenaline and razor-edged fear, the needs of his body had fallen silent. Often ignored, they’d taken their time returning, and they did so now with a vengeance, his insides cramping around the empty space within his stomach.

It was hot, the air dry and relentless, and the soon-to-rise sun would only increase his discomfort.

Glancing over his shoulder again, Sherlock studied his captor. The man hadn’t eaten recently either and even if he’d had a large meal before apprehending Sherlock, he doubted much of the caloric energy remained. And yet, just as he seemed to ignore the compounding impression of his injuries, the man marched onward with no sign of faltering.

It was both impressive and infuriating, and Sherlock bared his teeth when the man met his eyes. The expression made one of his captor’s eyebrows shoot up in a bemused look.

“What’s _your_ problem?” he asked, making Sherlock grimace at the blunt question.

“I’m hungry.” Sherlock’s stomach grumbled, loud enough for both of them to hear, and he huffed out an annoyed growl.

The man’s eyes turned calculating, sweeping over his lean figure with an appraising expression. “When did you last eat?”

Sherlock considered the question, glancing forward to make sure he wasn’t about to trip on anything before he turned back to the man and stopped. In wordless agreement, the man paused as well. The gun reappeared, still pointed at him from within the canvas bag, and Sherlock tried not to look directly at it.

“Yesterday?” he paused, added, “I think?” He nodded. “Maybe the day before.”

The man stared. “Are you saying you haven’t eaten in almost _two days?”_

Tipping his head to the side, Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe three.”

“Jesus Christ,” came the response, and the man lifted a hand, rubbing at his face. As if the motion rubbed away a mask, he looked instantly exhausted.

Unlike the time before, in the car, the urge to rush forward and try his luck at grabbing the gun was less inviting. It hadn’t worked then, and Sherlock doubted it would work now, and he stood still until the man dropped his hand and looked at him again.

“How much longer can you last?”

Sherlock frowned at the question. His brain felt sluggish. “Excuse me?”

“I think you heard me,” the man replied, lips twitching to the side. “Answer the question — how much longer can you go without eating before I have to throw you over my shoulder?”

Sherlock’s brow creased with thought. Trying not to think too deeply about the imagery inspired by the man’s words, he turned the question over for a moment before replying, “Maybe another five hours.” He turned and studied the surrounding terrain, grimacing when his stomach let out another harsh growl. “Maybe a little less, thanks to my injuries.”

“Injuries?” the man repeated. In wordless answer, Sherlock held up his cut hand. The man cursed, “Great.” Standing stiff and still, he stared into the distance and seemed to lose himself in thought. His eyes were unfocused, but his grip on the gun remained level.

Sherlock watched with detached interest, feeling the faint fogginess of his growing caloric deficit creeping into his focus. He tried to shake it off and found it lingered.

Coming back to himself, his gaze sharpening, the man sighed. “Sod this.” He lowered the gun toward the ground and shot Sherlock a warning look. “Don’t try to run,” he ordered. Sherlock held up his hands in surrender, even as he tried to calculate the potential of an escape attempt succeeding.

There was nothing but desert around them, and he had no way of knowing where they were in relation to nearby civilization. No, it would be no use to run, at least not in the state he was currently in.

“Here.”

Shaken from his thoughts by the man’s voice, Sherlock looked up to see him holding out something in a silver wrapper. In spite of his wariness, Sherlock moved closer to reach the offering. The gun came up immediately, tracking his approach, but Sherlock just took the object and retreated. Turning it over in his hands, he saw it was a protein bar.

He shot the man a confused look.

“Emergency rations,” he said, using his teeth to tear into an identical bar, his other hand still occupied by the gun.

The corner of his mouth twitching upward, Sherlock noted, “Can’t take the soldier out of the man?” He didn’t think the amused gleam he saw in the man’s eyes was imagined and had to force back a real smile at his reply.

“Something like that.”

Standing there in the lightening dark with the smell of dirt and arid desert filling his nose, Sherlock opened the protein bar and took a bite. The consistency was chalky and tasted strongly of fake sweetener, but aside from his brief grimace of distaste, he devoured the entire bar. It left his mouth feeling dry and dusty, and Sherlock struggled to swallow the last bite.

Just as he was eyeing the canvas bag, the man caught his gaze and dug inside before tossing a plastic water bottle his way.

Sherlock seized it with greedy hands and had already downed a quarter of the contents when the man barked, “Slow down!”

Freezing, Sherlock nearly spat out his mouthful, half-choked, and managed to force the liquid down with watering eyes. He pressed the back of his wounded hand over his mouth to muffle his coughing and blinked.

“I only have two full bottles,” the man explained, holding out a hand in a silent demand for the bottle. “We have to be careful not to drink it all. Who knows how far we are from the nearest town.” 

Sherlock glared, watching him with a sharp expression. Feeling contrary, he brought the mouth of the bottle back to his lips, held the man’s hard stare, and took a small sip.

 _“Wanker,”_ his captor snapped, flexing his fingers around the gun as his eyes flashed with incredulous anger.

Instead of replying, Sherlock capped the bottle and tossed it back with a sneer. The man caught it with ease, his lips pressed into a hard line. Sherlock watched him open the bottle and take a quick swig before closing it again and dropping it back into the canvas bag.

“Where are we going?” he asked again, a sense of faint unease growing into something far more tangible when the man’s eyes slid away from his.

“This way.” The gun came up and settled in Sherlock’s direction, making him sigh.

“That’s not an answer,” Sherlock snapped, glaring at the weapon.

“Sure it is,” the man said in a level voice as if he wasn’t pointing a handgun at someone he’d only recently met. “It’s just not the answer you want. Let’s go.”

Filled with a wave of rumbling anger that was a poor companion to his unease, Sherlock huffed, spun on his heel, and resumed walking. He was hot, sweaty, and exhausted. With his head beginning to pound again, he tried not to admit that he didn’t see any possible way to gain the upper hand.

Rather than linger on the utter lack of control he had over the situation, Sherlock ducked his head against the rising sun and slogged onward.

* * *

Despite what his captive no doubt thought, John did have a plan. It wasn’t much, still somewhat unformed and vague around the edges, but it clarified the longer they walked. And, now that he’d finally had an excuse to eat something — even if it was no more than a stale protein bar — his mind felt a little less sluggish.

If they could reach civilization, find somewhere with food and people and an honest-to-god _bed,_ John knew he’d figure out the rest. It was just a matter of tenacity, of pressing onward and pushing through the oncoming edge of dragging exhaustion. The time to rest would come. For now, John had his marching orders, even if they were no more than the need to put distance between himself and the death left in their wake.

John just hoped his captive would keep up with him. In spite of his flippant comment about carrying the man, John would prefer they both continue under their own power. With the way his body was aching, skull throbbing from too little water and too much heat, he didn’t relish the thought of having to carry the weight of another human.

He tried not to look too closely at the part of him that whispered he might as well just leave Phoenix if he fell. But, far louder than that insidious little voice was the soldier within him, the one that ordered no man be left behind.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to a point where John had to make a choice either way.

Watching Phoenix’s back as he walked ahead of him, John felt a flicker of gratitude for the man’s idiotic inability to care for himself. If he hadn’t stopped to mention his hunger, John would have kept on, forcing back his body’s needs to keep his focus on his captive.

He might not have lasted.

As it was, the protein bar mostly served to stoke his hunger, and he grimaced at the feeling of it in his stomach, sitting like a rock. Along with the discomfort, his bladder felt fit to burst, and his injuries were beginning to take a toll. For the moment, he could hide the impact. But the graze in his thigh had passed stinging and shifted into full-blown, searing pain about half an hour ago, and John wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up their set pace.

He ached to check his GPS to determine their exact location but immediately discarded the urge. The tech was from his employers — _ex_ -employers, he corrected — and John wouldn’t put it past them to track the device the second it came online. As it was, John would bet almost anything that the gun in his hand, given to him by the same people who tried to kill them mere hours ago, had a tracker of its own. He’d have to take it apart and disarm it or discard the weapon altogether, but there was time for neither.

John could only hope they had enough of a head start over anyone discovering their attackers' fallen bodies. If luck was on their side, John’s employers thought both he and Phoenix already dead, and they had time to find somewhere to bed down and hide out. Then, and only then, would John feel safe enough to plan their next steps and take stock of their equipment.

Ahead of him, Phoenix came to a sudden stop, and John halted in response, pulled out of his thoughts by the abrupt stand-still.

“What is it?” The gun rose warily as his captive turned toward him. To John’s surprise, Phoenix looked embarrassed. It was easier to make out his expression with the sun just below the horizon, spreading a burning line of fire along the far distance.

Looking at Phoenix, John saw that two twin spots of colour burned high up on his cheeks. They presented a stark offset to his pale skin, and John tilted his head, trying to make sense of them.

“What?”

“I…” Phoenix paused and scowled, his eyes darting away before returning to John’s confused face. The flush deepened as he muttered, “I need to empty my bladder.” The words sounded like they dragged out through his teeth, and John squinted in the fading dark to see a muscle ticking in the man's jaw.

 _Thank god,_ he thought in relief, his own bladder fit to bursting. Grateful for the chance to relieve himself and hiding the reaction, John nodded curtly. He waved to the sparse brush dotting their surroundings and said, “Have at it.”

His eyes widening, clearly taken aback by John’s cavalier response, Phoenix shot him an alarmed look. “Excuse me?”

Bemused by his incredulous voice, John’s eyebrows rose. Maybe it was just from years of pissing in front of fellow soldiers and strangers in public washrooms, but John failed to grasp the issue. “I said, have at it? You know — go ahead?” He waved his hand again. “Whatever. Just take your piss.”

Phoenix hesitated, glancing between John and the absolute lack of adequate coverage, and pressed his lips together.

His confusion shifting toward faint amusement, John’s brow furrowed, and he asked, “Is there a problem?”

A petulant silence grew and drew out. John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for a response.

“No,” Phoenix finally hissed after a moment of furious scowling. 

Catching on, John barked out a hollow laugh of surprise. “God, I won’t _look.”_ Turning his face away while leaving the gun pointed in Phoenix’s direction, he shook his head. “Didn’t take you for the shy type.”

John saw Phoenix’s face turn even redder from the corner of his eye, something he wouldn’t have thought possible.

“I’m not _shy,”_ Phoenix snarled. He spat the words from tight lips that curled down at the edges in distaste. “I just… I don’t _relish_ relieving myself while a staring stranger aims a gun at me.”

John snorted. “Well, tough shit, posh boy.” Glancing his way, he gestured with the weapon toward the ground. “Better get on with it. We haven’t got all day.”

“Lovely,” Phoenix replied in an acerbic snarl. He aimed one final sour glare in John’s direction, glanced toward where he seemed to think the main road might be, and turned his back. His shoulders rounded as he fumbled with his trousers.

John looked away as promised. With his gun-arm kept carefully steady, he held his breath until the tell-tale sound of liquid hitting the ground reached his ears. 

He felt a surge of wistful discontent, his very-full bladder aching in sympathy. Ignoring the pain, John tensed and held his ground until the sound slowed, dwindled, and stopped. He thought he caught a soft, relieved sigh from Phoenix and his own exhale hissed sharply out through his teeth.

Once John heard the sound of a zipper, he could stand it no longer.

“You done?” he snapped, earning himself a surprised look from Phoenix as he turned back to John.

Nodding in confusion, Phoenix went still and frowned. With his sharp, pale eyes narrowed, he studied John from head to toe before his lips curled into a smile that was closer to a sneer. “Ah,” he said, his tone disparaging, bordering on mocking, “so you _are_ human after all.”

“Har-har,” John muttered and waved the gun at him. “Go on, turn around.”

His eyes opening wide in a false display of feigned naivety, Phoenix purred, “Whatever for, Captain? Surely you don’t need _privacy?”_ Still holding his falsely innocent expression, he added, “Or am I the only one lucky enough to have to pee with a gun pointed at him?” 

John’s grip on the weapon tightened instinctively, Phoenix’s gaze darting down at the movement. His lips twitched again, and something cold and hard settled into the lines of his face, turning his expression almost cruel. He didn’t turn away.

Feeling a flicker of annoyance, John bared his teeth. “Because I need to take a piss, and I don’t need you staring at me with those fucking lasers you call eyes,” he snapped, in no mood to play games.He was tired, hungry, and sweaty, every inch of him ached, and he just wanted to _take a damned piss in peace._

Phoenix, of course, wasn’t about to let John have what he wanted.

“Go ahead, Captain,” he drawled, voice twisting the title into an insult as he wiggled the fingers of one hand before crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “I’m not stopping you.” One eyebrow lifting in a clear challenge, Phoenix added, “Unless you’re _shy?”_ He hurled John’s words back at him with biting venom.

Baring his teeth again, John muttered, “I’ll show you how shy I am when my foot is up your arse.”

Eyebrow still lifted, Phoenix held his ground. He rocked slowly on his heels and watched John in a silent display of provocation. Glaring at him, annoyed to find himself caught in a literal pissing contest, John clenched his jaw and growled low in his throat.

 _Have it your way._ He thought the words fiercely, already tired of playing Phoenix’s game. Holding Phoenix’s gaze, the gun still raised, John used his free hand to pull down the zip on his jeans and flip the button open. The immediate release of pressure on his bladder made him bite back a sigh. As it was, his eyes fluttered shut momentarily until he forced them open again.

He caught Phoenix’s gaze again, pausing with his thumb resting on the thick seam of his open fly. John waited for him to look away, to back down or give in.

The faint flush on Phoenix’s face deepened, but he didn’t react or otherwise move.

 _Right,_ John thought, trying to ignore the sudden surge of excitement that rippled through him like lightning, _guess we’re doing this._

Raising the gun again, he saw Phoenix was still watching him with that same defiant expression, his focus unwavering despite John’s undone jeans and the pause. With his bladder near to bursting and adrenaline spilling through his veins in response to the obvious challenge, John shrugged and gave up any pretence of turning away.

“Have it your way, then.”

Without further delay, John drew himself out and, aggressively holding eye contact with Phoenix, relaxed the tight clench of his muscles. The rush of release brought a heady sense of relief, and John bit into his bottom lip to resist the urge to sigh his bliss. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, unblinking as he stared at Phoenix.

Who stared back, his lips slowly twitching upward in a dangerous little smirk that didn’t seem willing to fade.

Even while John watched, his gaze hard on the man’s face, he saw a muscle shift in Phoenix’s neck as he clenched his jaw. His lips pressed together and his eyes darted down to where John gripped his flaccid length. They lingered before moving back to John’s face.

It happened in seconds, the attention there and gone, but impossible to miss.

 _Interesting,_ John thought, trying not to dwell on the moment. The man was his captive, virtually a prisoner of necessity. And, until John figured out what to do with him, that wasn’t likely to change. He had to focus and figure out his next steps, and he wouldn’t manage that if he kept giving into Phoenix’s games. It was all just a weak bid to gain the upper hand, and John didn’t need to bother when he was already top dog.

Mind made up, he rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and luxuriated in the feeling of relief spreading through his body as his bladder emptied.

With one eyebrow cocked, John finished, shook, and tucked himself carefully back inside his jeans. Phoenix watched with that same fierce focus, and John’s gun remained steady throughout the action.

It never so much as drifted while John did up his fly and slid the button back through its hole.

“Alright, show’s over,” he announced, adjusting himself before turning back to face Phoenix. Gesturing with the gun, he rolled his shoulders again and jerked his chin forward in a command. “Now, move.”

Turning away with that same little smirk on his lips, Phoenix lifted his hand to his forehead in a sarcastic salute and walked onward. Before his face was out of sight, John thought he caught the briefest flicker of confusion, there and gone before he could confirm.

He swiftly derailed the thoughts that tried to lead him in the direction of searching for reason in that brief expression. Even so, he felt a grudging sense of amusement rising in the wake of Phoenix’s little stare-down.

John reminded himself that now was not the time for distraction. To redirect his thoughts, he bit hard into his bottom lip and followed his captive toward the rising sun.

* * *

In the wake of his challenge, Sherlock found his thoughts sinking into a mire of confusion.

He’d tried to throw his captor off, to push him off balance with another bid for the upper hand. But, just as it had in the car when Sherlock went for the gun, his efforts failed.

It was frustrating — he was _frustrated_. Never before had Sherlock struggled so hard to read a person. Usually, he looked at someone and knew their entire story, knew it immediately and with little effort on his part.

The man managed to beat him at his own game, not just once, not twice, but three times. It was infuriating, and, still, Sherlock couldn’t see a way around it. No matter how he struggled and fought and schemed, the man was always one step ahead of him.

Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered if he’d met his match. The thought brought little in the way of comfort.

Now, thanks to his own stubbornness, he felt a wash of confused thoughts flicker across his foggy mind. Not only did the man refuse to back down, but he went a step further. He welcomed and seemed to accept Sherlock’s challenges with something like relish.

It was unfathomable. The man was a walking enigma that Sherlock had no opportunity to solve. The worst kind of mystery.

Irked, he scowled and kicked futilely at the sand.

They walked for what felt like hours. In rationality, it was likely no longer than one, if that. But with tired feet, aching injuries, and unappeased hunger, it seemed an endless slog to Sherlock. His energy, already limited by the happenings of the night, began to flag. Suddenly, it seemed to take all his focus just to keep on putting one foot in front of the other.

As the sun rose, climbing above the horizon and creeping upward, that slog became a battle. It reached the point where just putting one foot in front of the other required a severe level of effort on Sherlock’s part. And, as they went on, that effort seemed less and less worth it.

The pace the man set and maintained with the threat of a gun at Sherlock’s back was relentless. Sherlock finally thought he'd reached his limit with nearly three days of dangerously-reduced water intake and no food save for a chalky protein bar.

He theorized he was maybe fifteen minutes from giving in to the urge to collapse face-first in the sand when his captor ordered him to stop. His voice was stern and commanding, which Sherlock might have attempted to ignore if he’d had the energy.

Instead, he halted without challenge, desperate for the reprieve. Sherlock thought he would have obeyed immediately if the man told him to lay down on the ground and bury his head in the sand.

He stared at the sand underfoot. Thought about how burying his head beneath it might bring some respite from the burning sun. Caught up in his wistful thoughts and the arid environment of his mouth, it took far too long for him to notice the blades of grass dotting the ground. It took even longer for him to wonder why his captor called for a stop.

Raising his head, with his skull hanging heavy on his neck from compounding dehydration and fatigue, Sherlock looked ahead. There was a wall. And, beyond it…

“Is that—” he began, only to cough and choke on his own dried-out tongue. Luckily, his captor seemed to fare better than he, and he moved to Sherlock’s side, nodding with evident relief.

“Yeah,” he said, the gun finally drifting down to this side. “It’s a town."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, people might be happy to know that I now have up to chapter 19 planned out for this fic. I'd say we're looking at about 80-100k here, likely more. And note that there is a new 'slow burn' tag, and know that you have been warned 😈
> 
> ALSO! The amazing [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant) made a gorgeous cover for this fic that I just can't stop screaming about. You can see it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815080)


	6. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock find themselves in the Moroccan city of Nador. They seek shelter, hoping for a chance to regroup and recover from their ordeals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, I managed two updates in a week. Finally getting into the flow with this story 👌🏻
> 
> \----
> 
> Also, this song by Bishop Briggs came on my writing playlist for this fic, and I thought it was perfect for this scene: [White Flag](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scBk723GuPQ)
> 
> _Take a hit, shoot me down, shoot me down  
>  I will never hit the ground, hit the ground  
> Playing dead, I'll never do  
> Gotta keep an eye on you_
> 
> _Patience is wearing thin, paper-thin  
>  Promises broke again, what a sin  
> But it only feeds my energy  
> So don't expect no sympathy_
> 
> _Smoke, fire, it's all going up  
>  Don't you know I ain't afraid to shed a little blood?  
> Smoke, fire, flares are going up, flares are going up_

The sight of the city walls filled John with a sense of relief so visceral that it threatened to bring him to his knees. But he forced back the temptation and drew himself upright from the exhausted slouch he’d sagged into upon realizing they’d survived the desert.

“Come on,” he ordered, jerking his chin forward. His arm felt heavy, and it took far too much energy to lift the gun and wave it at Phoenix. “Let’s go.”

To his surprise, Phoenix barely reacted to the order. Both his glare and grim expression were half-hearted at best, a stark contrast to his usual displays of venom. He moved forward without comment, and John took a moment to watch him walk, noting how every step dragged, exhaustion hanging heavily on the man’s slender frame. With the realization of Phoenix’s fatigue came both a stab of pity and a rush of gratitude: with any luck, their trek had worn out John's captive, belaying his stubborn battle for the upper hand.

Maybe, John would even have a bit of peace, a stretch of respite in which to recharge. He tried not to let his anticipation grow into something tangible, lest it be squashed by a sudden sneer or desperate lunge for the gun by Phoenix. For all John knew, the fatigue was a facade, and Phoenix was merely biding his time before seizing the opportune time to strike.

John hoped that wasn’t the case. Of course, if that were to happen, he would deal with it when it came. There was no doubt in John’s mind that, even at half-capacity as he presently was, that he could take anything the other man threw at him, and then some. He’d proven himself capable of gaining the upper hand more than once in their strange, enforced dynamic. Even if John faltered, he still had his gun.

For all of Phoenix’s formidable intellect, he had no chance of outsmarting a bullet.

But, still, John felt an intense yearning for the visible weariness to be genuine. His own body burned with creeping exhaustion, and while he had run on empty more times than he cared to count, it was never a preferred state of being. John ached right down to his bones for a bed. Hard or soft, he didn’t care. Just the chance to be horizontal and out of the sun sounded like bliss, and, shaking away his pensive thoughts, John hurried to catch up with Phoenix.

He drew even with the man, found him barely lifting his feet, sand-scrubbed boots dragging over the ground with each step. Eyeing him, John thought either Phoenix was a phenomenal actor or was truly on the cusp of collapse.

A slight pang of guilt flashed through him when he found himself hoping for the latter.

“Keep your eye out for somewhere to stay,” John ordered, pretending to look around while he studied Phoenix from the edge of his vision. He received nothing but a tired little nod, and even that small movement seemed to take more energy than Phoenix could spare.

Allowing his guard to slip just a bit, John let the gun drop, tucking his hand into the canvas bag at his side. He kept his fingers around the grip, ready for a quick draw if the need should arise.

It was best the gun stay out of sight as they encountered people on their walk into the city. Some glanced their way, looking anywhere from curious to uninterested, some eyeing the blood on John’s face and leg. Others stared at the slow, reluctant dragging footsteps of his captive.

Hand tightening on the gun, John prayed Phoenix wouldn’t kick up a fuss in front of witnesses.

After a young man frowned and stared at them for too long with wide eyes, he realized they must look a sight. His grip shifted on the gun, and he tipped his head in a polite nod to the next person they encountered, an older man who regarded them warily before moving along.

“Any idea where we are?” John muttered to his silent captive who, his head jerking up with a dazed, dull look of surprise, shrugged.

“Without knowing where you drove us to after my capture, I have no way of knowing.” Phoenix sounded tired, his voice a rough scrape over an audibly raw throat.

John thought back over their travel, and his brow furrowed. “I picked you up in Tétouan, drove about seven or so hours… I think the drop site was outside of El Aioun?” He paused to confirm and nodded. “Then we drove about an hour and a bit north, ditched the car, and walked about that in the same direction.” John tried to picture the area, but he wasn’t familiar enough with Morocco to hazard a guess.

Next to him, Phoenix sighed and lifted his head. He tilted his face upward, into the hot breeze blowing through his sweat-slick curls, and sniffed loudly before lowering his head again. “Nador,” he surmised, sounding uninterested in continuing the discussion.

A slow frown creasing his brow, John asked, “Why?” At Phoenix’s silent, questioning glance, he added, “Why do you think we’re in Nador?”

Another long sigh from his captive. “Because we travelled north from El Aioun, there’s a palm tree over there,” he pointed, John turning to confirm, “and the breeze smells like saltwater.” Phoenix scowled at John’s raised brow, some of his abrasive attitude rising through his apparent exhaustion. “Nador is separated from the Mediterranean by a salt lagoon.” He squinted into the distance. John looked that way as well, but buildings blocked any chance of sighting water. There were mountains on the horizon. “The Indigenous people of the area — the Berber — call it _Bḥar Ameẓẓyan.”_

“What does that mean?” John asked, finding himself intrigued by the bit of trivia.

Phoenix shrugged. “I don’t know. It also has two other names. _Sebkha Bou Areq_ in Arabic, and the Spanish _Mar Chica.”_

“Huh,” John hummed, considering the information. “Seems like a lot of names for some salty water.”

Turning a wry look his way, Phoenix replied, “It’s evidence of colonial influences in the area. Nador is hardly the only city where you’ll find variable names for the same places.”

Silenced by the powerful point, John nodded, and they both lapsed back into an uneasy silence. Following the road that marked the edge of the city, John found his voice again.

“So, what — you just have all that memorized or something?”

Phoenix shot him a disapproving glance. “I looked at a map.” 

“What, like five hundred times?” John snorted.

“No,” Phoenix snapped, a flicker of fire returning to his exhaustion-dulled eyes. “Once. Some of us actually manage the brain capacity required to pay attention the first time.”

“Alright, alright,” John muttered. Evidently, their brief truce was over. “No need to be a prick about it.”

Phoenix muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, _I beg to differ,_ but he subsided back into a dull silence and left John in peace.

Taking advantage of his quiet, John stopped and looked around their surroundings. With his limited Arabic, he read a sign for a hotel and, catching hold of Phoenix’s arm, hauled him toward it.

“Don’t speak,” John hissed under his breath, releasing his arm once they were inside the air-conditioned interior. The cold rush of air felt like a blessing, and John resisted the urge to stop and bask in it.

“Aye aye, Captain,” came the peevish reply from Phoenix, which John ignored in favour of approaching the hotel proprietor. It took a bit for him to remember enough Arabic to string together a proper sentence. The owner seemed to take pity on him, keeping his responses simple, much to John’s relief. He handed over the requested money, clumsily thanked the man in Arabic, and accepted the key to their room.

As he turned away and headed for the stairs, Phoenix lagged alongside him. He shot John a narrow-eyed look and asked in a whisper, “Did you tell him we were brothers?”

“Yeah. Well, half-brothers,” John muttered back, checking the doors they passed for the room number matching the keys. “And I said you were sick so we can eat in the room. Make sure you act like it.”

Phoenix’s expression soured. John thought it unlikely he would play along with the ruse, but he looked poorly enough that John wasn’t worried about them pulling off the lie. Phoenix’s already pale skin had taken on a greyish hue, increasing his pallor and emphasizing the dark shadows beneath his eyes. It wasn’t far off to say he was ill, so John didn’t heckle him further on the point, instead stopping in front of the door to their room and fitting the key into the lock.

“Get in,” he ordered, holding the door open. Without a word of protest, Phoenix sulked past him and moved inside. He glanced around as John entered and closed the door behind him.

Tucking the keys into his pocket, John took in the space.

The room was cramped, with a little table with two chairs in the corner. It sat next to a curtained window and a small, built-in air conditioning unit. The main space included the entrance and a door to a quaint bathroom. From there, the room narrowed into an alcove that housed two beds. Barely a foot apart, separated by a tiny end table, they were narrow and short.

John saw Phoenix eyeing the lack of length with a critical gaze, but then he sagged and sank onto the foot of one of the beds before collapsing backwards. His feet hung off the edge, but he seemed beyond caring, fatigue-glazed eyes staring up at the ceiling.

With a bemused glance in his direction, John turned and set his canvas bag on a chair before stretching his arms over his head. He glanced at the bag and the gun inside, eyes darting at Phoenix. He looked somewhere between asleep and awake, and John wondered if he might pass out if John didn’t make any noise.

A knock at the door broke the quiet. Phoenix sat up like a Jack-in-the-box, rocketing upright with his eyes wide and startled, the edge of sleep pushed back by the abrupt interruption.

“It’s probably just the food,” John said, crossing the room to the door. He opened it and carefully stepped aside. The man who entered nodded at him and moved within. He set a clay cooking pot on the table, two bowls and spoons, along with bread and two bottles of water. Glancing at Phoenix on the bed, he raised an eyebrow at John, nodded again, and left them alone once more.

In spite of his evident fatigue, Phoenix rose at once. He stumbled before catching his balance and made his way to the table. Dropping into a chair, he opened the lid of the cooking pot and inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering before closing at the smell of the cooked food.

“It’s _tagine_ ,” he said and began spooning the thick meat stew into a bowl without further comment. Instead of bothering to serve John, he grabbed a piece of bread and a water bottle before retreating to the bed. There, Phoenix plunked down on the edge again and began eating with a ravenous expression on his angular face, stopping only for huge gulps of water.

Unperturbed by the lack of decorum, John served himself and took a seat at the small table. He ate and drank with the same single-minded focus that had gotten him through three tours in Afghanistan and Kandahar. The water helped push back the headache pounding at his temples, and John sighed at the cool trickle of liquid over his parched tongue and throat. He turned back to his food, pausing only to glance at Phoenix and make sure he hadn’t moved.

The man never so much as shifted. He just kept eating until the bowl was empty, and he set it aside to tear into the bread. John watched from the edge of his vision as Phoenix devoured every last morsel and washed it down with the rest of the water. John pursed his lips, trying to hold back his amusement at the man’s voraciousness.

When Phoenix shot him a suspicious glare, John focused back on his meal and resumed his surveillance from the edge of his vision.

The food was good. It was rich and hearty, warming John’s empty stomach and restoring needed calories. By the time he’d finished the serving, wiping bread along the inside of the bowl and popping it into his mouth, John felt sated and weighted down. With his stomach full, the exhaustion was beginning to seep in again, and John’s eyes burned as he blinked at the empty bowl. His injuries surged back into full focus, demanding his attention with the graze on his thigh the loudest.

Before he could let himself succumb to the desire to sleep, John turned to the man slumped on the end of the bed.

“You can have the first shower,” he said, the abrupt statement making Phoenix jerk in surprise.

Back straightening, Phoenix blinked. Setting his bowl on the floor, he glanced at the bed with a wistful expression before rising and dragging himself into the bathroom without a word. The door closed behind him, leaving John alone in the room.

* * *

Shutting himself in the bathroom, Sherlock set his back against the door and closed his eyes. The final dregs of his energy seemed to drain away, the food in his body making him ache for sleep. Despite the water, he still felt wrung out and baked dry by the heat, mouth still desert-barren.

He hadn’t even considered the possibility of a shower, and, as Sherlock raised his head and saw the cubicle in the corner of the small bathroom, he found himself longing for one.

With a significant display of effort, Sherlock peeled himself off the door and moved toward the shower. He shucked his clothes, pulling a face at the smell of sweat and sand and faded adrenaline that clung to the fibres.

Breathing out a wistful sigh, Sherlock thought there wasn't much he wouldn't give for a fresh change of clothes. But, with his meagre belongings back in his room in Tétouan, nearly six hours away by car, there was little chance of that happening.

He pushed aside the flicker of anger that rose whenever he thought of the turn his life had taken in such a short period of time and stepped into the shower. He spun the taps, shivering as cold water struck his back until it quickly warmed. Taking only a moment to luxuriate in the hot spray, Sherlock turned the temperature to lukewarm, wary of heatstroke after spending the night in the hot environment of the desert.

There was a slight sting when he turned to face the spray, the water washing sweat and sand from the shallow cuts on his chest. The water cleaned blood from his head, where it throbbed from connecting with the door frame. Sherlock felt at the area carefully with his fingertips, found it tender. To his relief, the cut felt small.

He tilted his face up into the spray. His split lip burned, Sherlock hiss into the water before he leaned out of the shower and grabbed a packaged bar of soap off the counter. Shucking the wrapper, he scrubbed the bar over his body, taking care where cuts marred his skin. His palm stung, and he hissed again, switching the soap to his uninjured hand.

Holding his palm up to his face, Sherlock saw there were bits of sand and particulate ground into the ragged edge of the wound. He grimaced and scrubbed carefully, but that only served to make it bleed and burn, and he focused on the rest of his body instead.

As the soap and water washed the leavings of the night away, sending it swirling down the drain like the fading remnants of a half-forgotten nightmare, Sherlock let his mind wander.

He thought of the events since his capture: how he’d gone from the certainty that he was on his way to meet his death to here, showering in a hotel room with his captor sitting just outside the door. In all his strange, frequently unsettling life, Sherlock never could have predicted his current situation. It felt surreal, like something out of a work of fiction, rather than something a real person experienced.

Then there was Sherlock’s captor himself. He was still a mystery — aside from his past as an army-doctor, Sherlock knew pitifully little about him. Just as he’d thought that morning, lost out in the desert and dragging through exhaustion, he couldn’t crack the man’s code. One moment, he was cruel and hard, a veritable force of nature -- something to be feared, and someone to be wary of. Then, in the next, he was almost kind, displaying a dark humour that spoke to Sherlock’s innate nature in a way he refused to look at too closely.

It was baffling. Infuriating and endlessly confusing, driving Sherlock madder than any unsolved case had thus far.

And, yet, even as he thought about how satisfying it might feel to know this contradictory man to his core, he knew it wouldn’t happen. In order to learn, to break his captor down to his base elements, Sherlock would need to stay. He required more data and that meant time. It meant he would have to remain here, remain trapped, just to get to the bottom of the mystery.Like a wayward planet caught in the vortex of a black hole, Sherlock would have to let himself drift into the man’s metaphorical event horizon. And, since such an action could only ensure his destruction, he couldn’t allow it.

It wasn’t worth it. He’d gone down this path before, first with drugs, then with Moriarty, and both brought him nothing but anguish. No matter his fascination with the soldier-turned-mercenary in the next room, Sherlock needed to get away.

As the water poured over his head, plastering soaked curls to his skull and washing away a salty sheen of dried sweat, Sherlock realized he didn’t even know the man’s name. Not that it mattered, he thought a second later, his teeth coming together in a fierce expression.

He didn’t need to know the man’s name to know he was dangerous.

Shaking his head and sending droplets in every direction, Sherlock shut off the water and stepped out into the bathroom. He grabbed a towel and dried his body meticulously, moving first down one long leg to his bare feet and up the other, rubbing the moisture out of his skin. Even with the air conditioning in the main room, the shut door and the steamy bathroom's close atmosphere immediately drew sweat from his pores. By the time he was finished drying off, Sherlock already felt sticky, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin.

If it was already this hot so early in the day, he shuddered to think of the building heat to come.

Sherlock swiped the towel over his forehead and hung it on a hook before pulling on his trousers. They were filthy, marked by the events of the night, and he tried in vain to wipe away the worst stains. A dusty cloud formed and drifted onto his damp feet, forcing Sherlock to abandon his efforts.

Using a hand towel to scrub at his curls, knowing they would dry quickly in the heat, Sherlock tossed it onto the counter. He pulled his t-shirt on over his head, grabbed the loose cotton top that matched his flowing trousers, and exited the bathroom.

He saw his captor standing in the small space between the beds, frowning down at something on the floor. He looked up at Sherlock’s entrance, eyes moving over his body. They lingered on his stained trousers and ruined t-shirt, his frown deepening before he met Sherlock’s eyes.

“You’ll need new clothes,” he said. “You’ll draw too much attention looking like that.”

Sneering to himself, Sherlock moved to the bed. Even as he spat venom at the man, he glanced toward the window and thought that today might be his only chance to get away.

Later today, come hell or high water, he would make his escape the second he was sure the man was asleep.

* * *

John waited until he heard the sound of the shower running before he stood up from the table and looked around the room.

He picked up the canvas bag and moved to the other bed, sitting in the middle of the narrow mattress. Taking out the gun provided by his ex-employers, John crossed his legs beneath him and broke the weapon down to its parts with confident, practiced motions. The work was repetitive, bringing the comfort of familiarity, and he studied each piece of the gun as he cleaned and oiled the parts.

It took a full ten minutes to find the tracking chip, but at last, John found it, set within the chamber that housed the trigger mechanism.

He scraped it off with the edge of his thumbnail and, balancing it on a fingertip, lifted the little piece of tech to eye level. It was small, barely eight millimetres and only obvious because it was grey against the gun’s black metal. If it had been black, John doubted he would have seen it at all.

Standing, John set the chip on the floor and brought his boot heel down on it just as the door to the bathroom opened, and Phoenix emerged in a cloud of steam. John glanced up and saw he wore his loose, dirty trousers and a thin grey t-shirt stained by sweat and blood, his cotton top draped over his arm.

“You’ll need new clothes,” John noted, taking in the wear and damage to the fabric. “You’ll draw too much attention looking like that.”

Phoenix glared and stalked over to the bed. “I _would_ change,” he drawled in a sour voice, “but someone kidnapped me, and what little I own is back in Tétouan.” Rather than wait for John’s reply, Phoenix’s eyes dropped to the floor and the remnants of GPS tracker. “What is that?”

“A tracker,” John replied. He squatted and carefully picked up the pieces, casting a shrewd eye over the carpet to ensure he got them all. Rising to his feet, he stared at the bits in his palm. “Hopefully, the only one.” He turned away to dump the pieces into the trash before reaching into the canvas bag.

When he turned back to Phoenix, the man’s sharp, silvery eyes, looking a little less faded from the shower, dropped to the object in John’s hand. “A first-aid kit?” he asked, looking at John with an unspoken question in his face.

John nodded and opened the lid. Rooting around inside the kit, he said, “Let me see your hand.” Silence met his request, and he looked up with raised brows when he found Phoenix staring at him. “Unless you’d rather let it get infected?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Phoenix nodded curtly and sank down on the edge of the bed. Eyes focused on the far wall with his head turned to the side, he held out his hand.

Distantly amused by the man’s blatant annoyance, John took it in his palms and bent onto one knee. Placing two BZK wipes and a roll of gauze on his knee, he squinted at the wound.

It was more of a gash than a cut, the edges jagged. John cleaned carefully, tearing open a wipe and using it to remove the sand and dirt embedded into the torn skin. Phoenix sat stiffly. Only his exhale betrayed his discomfort as it escaped through his teeth in a little hiss when John pressed too hard.

“Sorry,” he said automatically and kept his eyes on the cut. He could feel Phoenix’s stare on his bent head like a tangible point of contact. Jaw tensed, John waited for him to speak, but he didn’t, instead letting the silence stretch out.

Eventually, Phoenix looked away again.

John continued to tend the wound, little wells of blood rising up beneath his careful touches. He dabbed and cleaned until he was satisfied and placed a non-adhesive pad over the open cut. He wrapped gauze over top to keep it in place and tied it loosely, but not loose enough to slip off.

Raising his eyes to Phoenix’s tense face, he asked, “Anything else? How’s the head?”

“A few scratches on my chest,” Phoenix admitted, still avoiding John’s eyes. “But I cleaned them in the shower, and they’ve stopped bleeding.” He tilted his head in thought. “My skull is tender, but otherwise the cut is small.

“Alright.” Gathering up his supplies, John tossed the detritus into the trash with the destroyed tracking chip and packed up the kit. He set it back into the canvas bag and grabbed a handful of zip ties.

When he turned around, Phoenix’s eyes dropped to his hands again. This time, he groaned.

“Please don’t tie me to the bed,” he said, glaring at the plastic strips with his features shifting into a look of defeat.

A humourless smile on his lips, John jerked his chin toward the bed. “This will go a lot easier if you just do as I say.”

“And if I don’t?” Phoenix’s jaw tensed, his head tilting upward in a challenge.

John eyed him with exhausted frustration. “I’ll knock you out and tie you to the bed while you’re unconscious. So, you’d better decide if you want to do this with or without the future headache.”

Phoenix’s lips pressed together. His face darkened with red-cheeked anger, but he nodded curtly and held out his hands without further protest. Once again, he avoided John’s gaze, though a muscle jumped in his cheek as he ground his teeth together hard enough for John to hear.

“Just need the one,” John said, nudging the man up toward the headboard. Phoenix went without comment, his entire body stiff, his back rigid. John attached two of the zip ties to each other in loops, one fastened to the bed frame, the other dangling off the curve. He grabbed a third and looped it twice, creating a cuff that was loose enough not to cut into the delicate skin of Phoenix’s wrist but not so slack that he could worm his hand free.

Checking to make sure the setup was secure, John stepped back to admire his handiwork. The positioning of the cable tie on the frame allowed some freedom of movement, as intended. Instead of attaching it to the headboard, the frame placement didn’t force Phoenix to hold his arm over his head, a position that would only constrict blood flow to the limb.

Pleased, John nodded and picked up his canvas bag.

“Comfortable?” he asked, unsurprised when he received a deadly glare in response.

“Hardly,” Phoenix snapped. He wiggled his arm, making the cable ties clack against the edge go the bed. “Is this really necessary?”

Fixing him with a hard look, John asked, “Can you promise me you won’t try to escape while I’m sleeping?”

Phoenix’s face went blank, and he replied, “Yes.” It was almost convincing. He was a good actor, John would give him that much.

He snorted. “Yeah, and I’m six feet tall and can fly.”

His upper lip curling, Phoenix snarled and turned away as far as he could. Barely a second later, he turned back and snapped, “What if I have to use the bathroom?”

“I’ll remove the restraints,” John said.

“Go ahead, Captain,” Phoenix growled, “pull the other one.”

Shrugging, John sat on the other bed and started putting the broken-down gun back together. He did it quickly, hands never faltering as the pieces clicked into place. “It’s really your choice how this goes,” he said without rancour, ignoring the angry sound aimed his way.

With the weapon reassembled, John slipped it into the canvas bag. His own gun needed to be stripped down and cleaned as well, but he ached for a shower, and the job could wait. Standing, he slid the bag over his shoulder and turned toward the bathroom.

Phoenix watched him with a stiff expression from where he lay sprawled out over the meagre length of the bed. Halfway to the bathroom, Phoenix’s voice called John back with a question that made him pause.

“Why haven’t you told me your name?”

Looking over his shoulder, John raised an eyebrow. Phoenix was sitting up once more, his posture tense and expectant. Inside John’s aching chest, his heart began to race. It was a strange response, one he didn’t fully understand. Making an effort to conceal the reaction, John chuckled harshly and said, “Is this you trying to make friends?” There was no response. Phoenix’s eyes raked over him, scanning head to toe as his nose wrinkled. Watching him, John tilted his head. “Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

The crude wording of his challenge earned the response he’d hoped for as the look on Phoenix’s face turned thunderous, his cheeks burning an ugly red. Without bothering to reply, he rolled onto his back as far as he could manage with one arm restrained.

John waited for a follow-up. But, when none was forthcoming, he shrugged.

“Have it your way,” he said, unbothered as he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.


	7. Trust Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John and Sherlock battle with their individual demons, a change in circumstance forces them to unite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for some creepy nightmares in the last section. TW: pursuit, being eaten?

Left alone in the main room, Sherlock slumped back down onto the bed. He shoved his face into the pillow and closed his eyes with a huffing sigh.

He couldn’t say what possessed him to ask his captor for his name. All Sherlock knew was he’d gone from resolving to escape the first chance he had, to having that plan dashed by the man locking him to the bed frame. Caught off-guard by the obviousness of his captor restraining him — a predictable plan, if Sherlock had used his brain like the genius he was supposed to be — he’d slipped. Let loose some of his desperate and growing need to _know_ and _understand_.

Such a significant slip in his facade, only to have the man laugh, joke, and deny him an answer.

The blow to his pride made Sherlock want to curl into himself and dissolve into the air. Crack apart and disappear — anything to get away from the interminable hell his life had become. He had no hope of escaping now, not unless he found something to sever the cable ties. And, looking around the cramped bedroom, that seemed unlikely.

Listening to the silence behind the bathroom door, punctuated by a soft sound of pain, Sherlock wondered if he would ever escape his captivity. From what little information he’d managed to wheedle out of his captor, it was clear the man had no idea what to do with Sherlock. His captor's employers had labelled him a liability, and the man was as much at risk of death as Sherlock.

Except his captor had the freedom to run wherever he liked, whereas Sherlock was stuck, saddled to a stranger who wouldn’t even give up his name. In a way, Sherlock grudgingly understood the man’s reluctance. Names held power. Knowing his captor was to identify, label, and know him, and the man was smart enough to understand that having Sherlock Holmes know who you were was dangerous.

In Sherlock’s past, only one name had played a significant part in his downfall. When the name Moriarty first pinged on his radar, Sherlock had been a very different person than he was now. He’d been young and cocky, thinking himself invincible. Fresh from six months in rehab for a substance use problem that started recreationally, then devoured the first five years of his twenties, he’d walked into the world with no intention of looking back.

It had been through the sheer boredom, the pedantic exhaustion of personal therapy, group therapy, arts and crafts, and addiction theory that he found sobriety, not through the program itself. And, when he left, Sherlock itched for engagement, fiending for stimulation the way he’d once ached for the drugs themselves. Afraid he might lose his mind in the sheer drag of days at the rehab facility, Sherlock had fought. Clawed tooth and nail until his desire for freedom grew louder than the urge to use. The addiction counsellor compared his recovery to a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, or some other disgusting platitude that Sherlock hoped never to hear directed at him again.

Leaving the facility, he’d promised to be different. Resolved to focus on the Work, make a name for himself and never travel down that dark road again. Buried in his work, Sherlock did just that. He’d been a little lonely, sure, but he’d always been lonely all his life. That was how the drugs came into his life in the first place.

But this time, Sherlock pushed work into the empty spaces instead of cocaine. And, for a while, it worked.

Until it no longer did.

When he first heard the name Moriarty, the boredom was an almost constant companion. Insidious, irrefutable, it crept into Sherlock’s life until it was suddenly louder than the Work, and the Work wasn’t enough. Cocaine started to look tempting again, and then there were the serial suicides. A new chance to be innovative, to prove that he was clever — to prove himself to the doubters, to his brother, to those who thought him strange and wrong and dark.

And, throughout it all, Sherlock burned incandescent. He’d felt invincible, infallible. He solved the cases, every single one—first, the serial suicides, the banker and the assassins, then the bombings, the escalating threats of destruction.

He lost one life, but what was one loss against all those wins? What was one loss when Sherlock reached new heights daily? When Moriarty pushed him, and he rose to the challenge, and together they were _glorious?_ Nothing. It was nothing.

The pressure increased, ramping up like a bad high. There was Irene Adler, which Sherlock solved by the skin of his teeth. Then Baskerville, and the fear he’d felt, the sheer terror until he learned that it was all in his head. The glitch in his hard drive, the rush and the thrill when Sherlock finally pieced it together, gripped Henry Knight’s shoulders and thanked him for the chance to, once again, prove himself infallible.

Sherlock did it all, _solved them all,_ made a name for himself just as he’d always hoped. It no longer mattered what everyone said, what awful words the childhood psychiatrists and teachers and the kids who bullied him used. Now, he was Sherlock Holmes. He was the man in the funny hat, the super sleuth, the Reichenbach hero. His name was on the tongues of the powerful, setting him up to rise in a way no one in Sherlock’s life ever anticipated.

And so, he rose — rose high, higher, far above any height taking drugs ever allowed him to achieve.

And then he fell.

By the time Sherlock realized his rising trajectory, it was ultimately a downward plunge that awaited him and not a seat at the top, and it was too late to avoid his inevitable fall. By then, all he could do was beg his brother to help him — to make it right where Sherlock had let it all go so very wrong.

False his death might be, but the fall was real, even if it was a fall from grace and only a false leap.

And now, restrained with zip ties to a bed in Morocco, Sherlock saw a new low. One where he not only faded from the memories of everyone who now doubted him, never to clear his name but found himself chained to a nameless man. A man who wouldn’t tell Sherlock who he was, what he was going to do, or even what the next step was.

If Mycroft could see him now, Sherlock wondered if his brother would recognize him. Or, even worse, if he would look at Sherlock and see him exactly where he’d always imagined he might end up. Would he care if he never heard from Sherlock again?

The realization that he couldn’t answer even his own questions made Sherlock’s stomach twist.

The self-pitying thoughts clawed through his mind, cluttering his head and making him dig his nails into the bedspread. Sherlock came back to himself slowly, easing out of his brain and back to his surroundings. As he did, the sound of the shower running in the bathroom faded into his awareness.

Smoothing his bandaged hand over the bed cover, Sherlock wondered how long it had been since he slipped into his head. There was no way of knowing, and he looked toward the window. The curtains blocked his view of the outside, but harsh sunlight burned along the edges, and he theorized it must be nearing late morning.

Sherlock let his head settle back on the pillow, and his eyes dropped to the bandage covering his palm. The gauze was tight but not enough to push on the wound. Staring at it, Sherlock recalled the skill and care with which his captor tended the gash, his quiet apology when he pressed a little too hard and made Sherlock hiss in pain. The memory filled him with an unexpected wash of rage at the man’s contradictory nature. He was two things at once, always two things, never one. He was kind and cruel. He was skilled and yet had no plan, quick on his feet and barking mad.

Sherlock was infuriated. He wanted to grab the man and shake him, shake him until his head snapped back and his secrets came loose, spilling from his mouth like sand out of a shattered hourglass. He wanted to _break_ him open to see what was inside. Claw into his skull and read his mind, _know him_ , and, at the same time, he wanted to escape, flee, run and never stop until the man was on one side of the planet, with Sherlock on the other.

The sound of the shower cut out, and Sherlock’s feverish thoughts drained away with the silence, dying out like a light switched off. Eyes on the ceiling, he listened to the man moving about in the bathroom — the rustle of towels, the soft noise of damp footsteps on tiled floor. The walls were deplorably thin, and Sherlock wondered what kind of din would filter in from outside once the city was fully awake.

A quiet creak alerted him before the bathroom door opened, and Sherlock quickly closed his eyes. He rolled his face into the pillow and made his breathing slow and even, hoping the man would think him asleep. Even if he didn’t believe the sham, Sherlock hoped he would be wise enough to keep his mouth shut.

He didn’t think he could keep himself from screaming his anger if the man spoke to him.

* * *

The insidious, creeping guilt that washed over John in the aftermath of his harsh words to Phoenix was almost tangible. It wasn’t kind of him to treat the man as he did, now that John’s employer's betrayal had placed them effectively on the same side. If John were smart, he would stop keeping his distance and try to find an advantage in the situation.

If he were _sane_ , he would let Phoenix go and run in the other direction, hopefully never to see one another again.

Try as he might, John couldn’t determine which was the right decision. After the hell of his last hours serving, then his discharge and those few mindless months of emptiness spent in an army bedsit in London, John had taken to mercenary work and never looked back. It was what he knew now: working alone, rarely answering to anyone but a faceless hire and his own conscience, which he’d learned to tune out.

This new dynamic, he and Phoenix forced to work together, not as allies but through necessity, was beginning to wear on him.

But Phoenix was right. John’s trust issues were far louder than the temptation to establish an alliance. Now that he was no longer working a job, now that Phoenix wasn’t his target, John should leave. They should both go their separate ways before John made the mistake of letting himself see the man as someone he could conceivably trust, an idiotic thought if ever there was one.

Just the same, some small part of John, a small piece that threatened to contradict everything that had kept him safe since leaving the army, wanted to trust a stranger. A dangerous one, at that. Even worse, John realized he _wanted_ to let that small part grow. But he couldn’t. Phoenix was right about his trust issues, and John had good reason for them. When he’d trusted in the past, it nearly got him killed. The last time John trusted someone, it earned him a bullet in the shoulder and an honourable discharge.

He couldn’t go through that again — refused to. There could be no new alliances for John, not anymore, possibly not ever. And certainly not here, with Phoenix.

John was better left on his own and would be so again, once he put some space between himself and Phoenix.

Even so, something made him hesitate, made him reluctant to set his captive free. It wasn’t malicious. There was no ill intent behind the hesitation. In all honesty, John found he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly drew him to the man in the other room, but it was present and undeniable, and it filled him with growing disquiet.

Whatever decision he might make, he needed to decide soon. Phoenix was far too intelligent and intuitive to miss John’s uncertainty. For now, he could keep his distance, hide behind facades. But once Phoenix recovered from the ordeal of the last twelve hours and regained his razor-sharp focus, John had little doubt the man would see right through him. He would see that John had no real plan, no next step, likely no actual hope of escaping the people he’d killed for over the past few years. And, once John was exposed as lost, he didn’t care to think what Phoenix might do.

John was a man without a safety, without a fallback plan. A tightrope walker without a net, a man without a hope in hell of surviving on his own. But even the idea of letting himself be made vulnerable by choosing to trust a stranger made John far more uneasy than the idea of trusting someone else to have his back.

Safe in the bathroom, protected from Phoenix’s all-knowing stare by the door between them, John dropped his hands onto the edge of the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The face looking back at him was haggard. There was dried blood smeared over the right side of his face and along his collarbone on the same side, making his shirt stick to his chest.

Looking at the state of himself, John thought it was no wonder they’d attracted attention on their way into the city. He looked like a murderer, and while he’d been that on more than one occasion, it wasn’t something comfortably broadcast. After so long spent keeping a low profile, head down and inconspicuous, John felt seen.

It was not a comforting sensation.

He turned away from the mirror and pulled his shirt over his head, wincing when it clung to the dried blood on his chest. Tossing it onto the floor, John sank onto the toilet lid and began to remove his jeans. They made it halfway down his thighs before he stopped, teeth grinding together as the thick fabric tugged at the abraded flesh where the bullet grazed his left thigh. With painstaking care, a muscle jumping in his jaw throughout, John peeled the jeans from the wound. No matter how careful he was, the action still tore the tenuous scabbing, and sweat dripped down the side of his face as he finally separated the last bit of jean from the wound.

Blood welled up from the site at once. Cursing, John kicked the jeans off, followed by his socks and pants, and jumped into the shower.

He was quick and methodical, washing thoroughly and flushing his wounds free of dirt, dust, and debris. It felt almost sublime to be clean once again, the water washing away layers of sweat, salt, blood and sand. John imagined he was shedding his skin, scrubbing hard until his body stung from the aggressive force of his cleaning.

When he finally emerged from the shower with his skin flushed and damp, John grabbed a clean towel and set to drying every inch of his body. He found bruises and abrasions he’d failed to notice in the frenzy of survival, and which now barely registered against the stinging pain of his more severe injuries.

No longer dripping on the floor, John grabbed his first-aid kid and sat on the toilet lid again. Fresh blood was once more welling up from the bullet graze on his thigh, John pulling a face as he dug into the kit. The wound was shallow but still open, the platelets and scab torn away by removing his jeans. It could easily become infected, and John was glad he’s made sure to soap and rinse the area thoroughly.

Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, John pressed it over the wound to staunch the bleeding and ripped open the packaging for a non-adhesive pad with his teeth. He lifted the corner of the toilet paper, saw fresh blood bead on the raw skin, and placed the pad over top, reapplying pressure.

Head tilted back against the wall, John closed his eyes and sagged. With his stomach full and his body clean, his mind had far more free reign for intrusive thoughts than he would have preferred. Now, his exhaustion returned ten-fold, and it took a forced surge of energy to drag his eyes open and sit up.

When he rechecked the bleeding, it had slowed, and John breathed a relieved sigh. He set to bandaging the wound with confident hands, making sure the site was clean. He did the same with his collarbone, and then, using the mirror as a guide, he used a wound closure on his cheek. There was a bruise rising around the mark, turning John’s skin yellow and blue. It couldn’t be helped. At least his face and chest were clean of the caked and dried blood. With any luck, John could skulk away and keep a low profile. Hopefully, he could manage to pass out of Morocco without pursuit.

Bali still sounded promising.

John turned away from his reflection before his traitorous brain could remind him that nothing ever went his way. Digging out a change of clothes from his bag, he pulled them on, grateful to be both clean in dress and body. He pushed aside the pang of guilt at the knowledge that Phoenix sat outside the room in the same filthy clothes John picked him up in. He was a grown man, and if John released him, Phoenix could figure out his own path.

 _If_ John came to his senses and released him. Right now, he couldn’t say why that was still proving to be such a difficult decision to make.

John shook his head and stuffed his blood-soaked clothes into the trash before leaving the bathroom. He braced himself for venom and ire from his captive but found Phoenix lying with his eyes closed, turned half away as much as his restraints allowed. John felt another pang of guilt at the sight and reminded himself he could hardly expect the man not to attack or betray him if he left him untied.

And, with the way his nightmares sometimes failed to recognize ally from enemy, the restraint was safer for both of them.

John tried not to dwell on the thought of what might happen if he had a flashback with the beds as close as they were. He would make sure to store the guns beneath the bed and out of reach. Close enough for waking reaction, far enough for his sleeping mind to miss.

With his mind settled on the matter of his weapons, John crossed the small room and sank onto his bed. There, he took out his own gun and went through the same motions as he had with the other firearm before his shower. As it had then, the work lulled him into a comfortable place somewhere between focus and wandering, his hands following muscle memory.

He cleaned each piece, fingers familiar with every inch of the Sig Sauer. It had been a constant companion through the horrors of both Helmand and Kandahar, the gun almost an extension of John himself. He shouldn’t have it anymore — it would, in fact, be a significant detriment to his continued freedom if anyone caught him carrying the illegal, military-issue firearm. But he’d been unable to part with it, and through some creative lying, managed to keep it beyond his discharge.

As John reassembled the gun, he looked toward the window and froze, gaze caught and held by the realization that Phoenix was awake. He was watching John clean the Sig, his silver-blue eyes appearing sharper than they had earlier, though dark shadows beneath betrayed his fatigue.

Only pretending to sleep, then.

John opened his mouth to say something. But, caught between a sudden and frightful desire for conversation, and the necessity of keeping his distance, he found he had no idea what to say. How did you talk to a stranger? Worse than that, how did you talk to the stranger you’d willingly condemned to death, only to end up trusting them with your life? And who you then dragged through the desert and tied to a bed because said trust was too fragile to last?

John didn’t have an answer for any of his own questions. Eventually, Phoenix’s upper lip curled back with disdain before he turned his head away. His chance to engage passed and John closed his mouth without saying anything.

Swallowing down the unexpectedly bitter taste of regret rising in his throat, John turned his attention back to the task at hand. Pushing home the last piece of the gun helped lessen some of his lingering guilt and lower the volume on his too-loud thoughts.

But, as he reached for several empty clips and began pressing bullets into the opening, John knew he could only avoid facing his thoughts for so long. In time, his doubts and regrets would grow far too loud to ignore, and he would have to figure out what he was doing here.

He glanced at Phoenix again and wished the answers would come easier. But, as with most things in John’s life, things never seemed to come easy.

The pad of his thumb slipped and pressed into the hard edge of the clip, the thin metal drawing blood and startling him out of his thoughts.

Frowning, John stuck his thumb in his mouth to suck away the bead of red and reached for another magazine. He filled it from the box of rounds, and a third, then a fourth. Once he reloaded both guns, the extra magazines replenished and stowed, John leaned over the edge of the bed and moved to shove the canvas duffle bag beneath. The bed was so narrow and low to the ground that it would barely fit.

But, as John started to slide the bag beneath, he hesitated. Lifting his head, he glanced toward Phoenix. The man had rolled back toward him again, but his eyes were closed this time, and the lines of his face were softened and lax in what appeared to be real sleep. There was always the chance that it was a sham, given Phoenix’s talent at faking, but something told John this was genuine.

He watched the slow, steady rise and fall of the man’s chest until he realized what he was doing and, giving his head a shake, refocused on the canvas bag. After only a second longer of uncertainty, he pulled out his Sig. With the gun balanced in his palm, John stared at the weapon, allowing himself one last moment of doubt before he slid it into the drawer of the tiny table between their beds.

He checked on Phoenix again, gauging if the man would be able to reach the gun. John didn’t think he could and found himself willing to take the chance. Since Afghanistan, the Sig’s place was next to the bed. It kept John safe, kept him alive, and he couldn’t find the confidence to forego his routine.

Closing the drawer, John pushed the bag beneath the bed and slipped under the covers. Like Phoenix, he kept his clothes on, both for privacy and in case he needed to be up and moving at a moment’s notice.

Head on the pillow, John folded his hands together on his chest and stared up at the ceiling. The room was only semi-dark, the noon sun doing its best to burn through the thin curtains in front of the window. Thumbs rolling slowly, one over the other, John doubted he would sleep a wink. His mind felt like a hurricane, thoughts whipping through his head in a tumultuous rush. But, as the day crept closer and closer to high-noon, John’s eyelids grew heavier, and, eventually, he slept.

* * *

Sherlock didn’t intend to fall asleep. He planned to stay awake and wait out the man. His captor was exhausted. Even someone lacking in any deductive reasoning whatsoever could see that. If he could just stay awake until the man dropped his guard and slept, Sherlock could try to facilitate his escape.

He’d watched the man clean his second gun and fill empty clips with new rounds, biding his time. There had been an almost hypnotic rhythm to the work, one that Sherlock found caught and held his focus in a way that settled the unrelenting buzz of his thoughts. He didn’t plan to let the man catch him watching, but he'd become engrossed in the strangely soothing repetition of his captor’s movements and dropped his guard. The man had looked up, seen him, and froze. Sherlock had no idea what prompted him to hold the man's gaze, but he’d found himself hoping his captor would speak, even as Sherlock realized he had no idea what he might want him to say.

But the man’s open mouth offered only silence, and it eventually became too much for Sherlock, prompting him to turn away and hide his burning eagerness for insight into the man’s mind.

Listening to the repetitive click of bullets sliding into magazine clips, Sherlock fell asleep.

His dreams were strange. In the first, he was a child, running through an unfamiliar forest. There was something behind him, something vast and dark and breathing loudly in the dark. Whenever Sherlock looked over his shoulder, there was nothing there. But, every time he stopped, thinking he was safe, hot, fetid breath washed over him in putrid waves, and he set off running again.

The dream ended as he tumbled down a grassy hill, the scenery falling away like a set change. When Sherlock sat up and blinked, he was immediately standing, back to his current age and height, with that scared little child’s heart still hammering in his chest as Sherlock found himself walking through a cave with red walls. The walls dripped and heaved, shook with a blistering wind that plastered his curls to his head. With every step forward, a fierce sense of unease took root and grew, stretching through him the way a tree’s highest branches stretched toward the sky.

By the time Sherlock finally realized he was walking through the monstrous maw of the beast which had hunted him, the ground beneath his feet began to rock and reel. It shifted and moved, transforming into a rough, terrible tongue that rippled, pushing him off his feet and down the black throat of the beast, toward its ravenous stomach.

Sherlock thrashed and stirred in the bed, nearly waking. But he stilled, settling down and sinking into the next dream.

Gone were the living walls. Checking over his shoulder, Sherlock saw that no beast lurked at his back. Instead, He was back in the desert, by himself. Except… no, he wasn’t alone. _They_ were back in the desert, he and the man. But there was no gun pointed on Sherlock, not here in the dreamscape. It was just the two of them beneath a sky that burned with stars, their brilliance painting the afterimage of galaxies into Sherlock’s eyes when he raised his gaze to the heavens.

“How are we here?” he asked without expecting an answer.

But the man did reply, his muted response making Sherlock stare at him as he said, “Because you fell.”

“Of course I fell,” Sherlock snapped with a frown. “I know that.”

His captor’s expression was perfectly serene. When Sherlock looked closer, he saw that the stars above had replaced the man’s eyes, turning his formerly-blue stare into the spill of the Milky Way and erasing his humanity.

“The secret is that you never stopped falling,” the man said, his strange words making Sherlock stiffen.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock said with his mouth suddenly dry.

Without moving his lips, the man said, “Phoenix.”

Brow furrowed, Sherlock whispered, “The bird that rises from the ashes of its own consuming fire.”

The man pressed his lips together and repeated himself, “Phoenix.” His star-filled gaze was intense, burning, threatening to devour. It made Sherlock take an involuntary step back, craving distance between himself and that unfathomable stare.

“What are you trying to say?” Forcing back his irrational fear, Sherlock moved forward to grab the man’s arm. He tried to reel him in and demand answers, but his hand went right through the arm, through the man’s chest, through him entirely as the dream faded, stretched thin and tore into drifting tatters.

“Wake up.”

Sherlock moved to sit up, but he was stopped by a hand on his chest, holding him against the mattress. He tried to lash out, confused and alarmed with his mind still half-lost in the dissolving imagery of the dream. One arm moved and was blocked, the other caught by the cruel bite of a plastic edge against his wrist.

Another hand covered his mouth, and Sherlock stilled, blinking up into the face of his captor.

“Be quiet,” the man hissed, staring down at him. His eyes were blue once more, no longer replaced by the spinning eternity of galaxies. “We have to go — right now.”

Slowly, Sherlock became aware of a growing, disruptive barrage of sound outside the room. He heard raised voices and heavy boots, the noise of men arguing. Sherlock realized his captor’s employers had tracked them down as he made out several low voices speaking in English.

These were the men who meant to kill him, who planned to kill them both. For all he knew, this was it. Death had caught up with him. Surely, Sherlock had no ally here. His captor could still hand him over, might see fit to use Sherlock as a bargaining chip to save his own life. Would he do that if there was even the smallest opportunity that it might buy him the chance to escape? Would Sherlock do it if he was in the man's shoes?

In the split second he allowed for the thought, Sherlock realized he had no answer. His heart leapt into his throat and threatened to choke him, and he looked up at the man standing over him. He felt his face shift into an expression of what could only be interpreted as naked fear.

“Are you awake?” his captor asked in a voice barely above a whisper. Sherlock nodded, his heart still pounding from his terrifying thoughts. The hand on his chest disappeared, though the one on his mouth remained, and the man fixed him with a hard stare. “Not a word, alright?”

Sherlock nodded again, and the man lifted his hand off Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock eyed the door with trepidation as the man ducked down beside the other bed. A knife appeared in one hand, and he kept darting looks over his shoulder while he sawed through the zip tie circling Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock watched with dazed surprise, his mind still sluggishly trying to catch up with the waking world. The dream clung to him in spite of the adrenaline rush spilling through his veins, threatening to drag him away from reality and back to that star-lit desert-scape.

The man stood, the sudden movement pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts. The knife disappeared back into a sheath on the man’s hip, a gun appearing in his empty hand. Looking down at Sherlock, his captor pressed his lips into a thin line and held out the second gun, handle first with his fingers tight around the muzzle.

“Take it,” he snapped when Sherlock only stared dumbly at the offering. “And don’t shoot me in the back,” he added.

Slowly, Sherlock reached out to take the gun. His fingers brushed the handle, slowly curved over the grip. The man didn’t let go right away, and Sherlock looked up. Their eyes locked for a moment, brief and fleeting, and Sherlock nodded. In spite of all this man had put him through, Sherlock knew he was his only chance at survival. Even with a gun in his hand, Sherlock was still at his mercy, and that fact did not go unregistered in his clarifying mind.

“I won’t,” he replied, realizing the man was still holding the gun, his expression betraying his lingering hesitance.

His captor appeared unconvinced, wary, but he finally tilted his chin in a little nod of his own before stepping back and relinquishing the gun. Stooping, he grabbed his duffle bag and pulled it over his head. With it hung across his back, he straightened again and clutched his own gun in both hands with the muzzle pointed toward the floor.

Looking at Sherlock over his shoulder, he said, “Get ready to run.”


	8. Leap of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John flee danger and an uneasy truce forms.

Phoenix’s willing response to John’s commands was unanticipated, but there was little time to dwell on his surprise as the sound of nearing voices in the hall grew louder. Footsteps approached the door to their room and paused outside, and John's breath caught in his throat. It was too late to turn back or escape on his own.

All John could do was hope that Phoenix wouldn't have a change of heart and decide to shoot him in the back.

John's eyes dropped to the small crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. Two sets of shadows disrupted the light shining through from the hall, and John could only assume they belonged to their pursuers. Anything else felt unlikely, and he tensed.

It seemed luck wasn’t on their side after all, and his ex-employers had tracked them down before John destroyed the tracker in his gun. He should have ditched the weapon with the car, but it was too late now to agonize over what he should have done. As the saying went, the chickens had come home to roost, and no amount of regret on John’s part could change that. All he could do was adapt and react and make sure they — _both_ of them — got out alive.

The thought pushed John back into a familiar mindset. His focus narrowed, clarified by adrenaline, and the blood rushing in his ears fell into background noise. It was the distant sound of the tide, irrelevant in the present moment. The gun was heavy and hard against his palms.

Phoenix’s gaze on his back was like a physical presence, stoking John’s anxiety with the reminder that it wasn’t only his neck on the line.

As he stared at the door and readjusted his tense grip on the gun in his hands, John saw the handle twitch. Heard it rattle and watched as it twisted first one way then the other. He felt a flicker of dread before seeing it hold, the lock fulfilling its simple purpose. The door remained closed, and the handle stilled. The shadows moved away from beneath the door after a brief murmur of voices on the other side.

John’s breath rushed out in a muted gasp. He breathed in with aching lungs and realized he’d been holding his breath. A second inhale steadied his stiffening body, brought oxygen to his blood and cleared his head of the narrowed focus. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, John saw Phoenix watching him intently. With the outside brilliance of the day shaded by the thin curtains, the semi-dark of the room cast his face into shadow. It made Phoenix's expression near-impossible to read, but his sharp, bright eyes glittered as they darted over John’s face, and John knew he was waiting for his signal. He nodded in silent acknowledgement, and Phoenix's breath rushed out in a heavy sigh.

With his head tilted toward the door, John crept forward and placed his ear against the wood. He listened, heard footsteps retreating and stopping as the hostiles checked the other rooms on their floor. Eyes closed, straining, he listened harder, listened to a soft exchange in English, the words too muted to make out, followed by footsteps passing by the door, moving back toward the stairs.

Once they’d descended, John leaned back away and looked at Phoenix again. He hadn’t moved, was still standing in the middle of the room, the gun in his hands levelled at the floor.

“Let’s go,” John whispered, jerking his chin toward the door. “Remember — don’t make a sound.”

His expression almost severe in its solemnity, Phoenix nodded, and John turned his focus forward.

He flipped the lock with a steady hand and grasped the knob. Slowly, John eased the door open. He did so in increments until there was enough space between the door and the jam to let him peer outside. His teeth clicked together, and his jaw clenched, trapping his quickening breath as John looked up and down the hall.

It was empty.

“Come on,” he hissed over his shoulder, not waiting for a response as he moved forward. If Phoenix was as smart as he believed himself to be, he would see that John was his best chance for escape. And if he decided otherwise… well, that was out of John’s hands, and not his problem. If Phoenix chose to follow his own unshared plan and get himself killed, John would be better off, no longer forced to look after anyone save for himself.

The thought was cruel, and John shied away from his own apathy before shaking his head clear and easing out into the hall.

It was still empty. John tucked the gun alongside his thigh, muzzle to the ground as he glanced up and down the hall. The stairs to the first floor were on their left. At the other end, a second flight led to the third floor. There was a railing just past them and a view of the distant mountains, the building's backside open to the elements.

John turned to the right and waved two fingers in the same direction, falling back into familiar military signals. For good measure, he whispered, “This way.” Phoenix’s light steps followed behind him as John moved forward silently with his weight balanced on the balls of his feet.

Falling into a quiet trot, John paused only to glance over his shoulder, checking that the hall remained clear until they reached the railing. Adjusting his grip on the gun, he stopped and looked over the side. The ground below was dotted with sparse shrubs, and the drop wasn’t far. Even so, just looking at it and thinking about the leap made John’s injured thigh pulse with the promise of pain. Teeth gritted together, John huffed out a steadying breath and pushed the trepidation away.

His resolve once more firm, John turned to Phoenix. “Give me the gun,” he said, holding out a hand. There was the briefest flicker of doubt in Phoenix’s eyes, a small hesitation before he handed it over with fleeting reluctance. Gripping both weapons, John offered a stiff smile and nodded at the railing. “Climb over, hang down by your arms until you can’t go any further, then drop. Got it?”

Casting a wary eye over the railing, which was rusty and had clearly seen better days, Phoenix looked at John again and slowly nodded. He followed John’s directions without comment, needing only a small hop to gain enough height to swing his leg over the wrought iron.

John sucked in a breath once Phoenix was astride the railing, praying it wouldn’t break. But it held, and Phoenix skidded down the side of the building, white-knuckled hands locked tight around the bars before he dropped. He was tall, and the drop was much shorter for him than it would be for John. Still, John found himself tensing with an unexpected rush of anxiety until Phoenix was on the ground. He stared up at John from below, his eyes reflecting the sun like the flat calm of a foreign ocean. John blinked down at him for a moment, enchanted by the sight.

Distant voices rose in one of the rooms, and he came back to himself with a jolt. Shaking his head to clear it, John checked the hall over his shoulder, ensuring they were still in the clear before he slipped the guns into the bag on his back, zipped it closed and hoisted himself onto the railing.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs down the hall, and his heart leapt into his throat before John was skidding down the side of the building and out of view.

The old metal was rough against his palms, peeling paint chipping off and scraping his skin. With a fleeting thought for Phoenix’s cut hand, John dropped down to the ground with a grunt, stumbling when his left leg twinged at the impact. But he was upright immediately and waving Phoenix around the side of the building until they were out of sight. John didn’t stop until they’d crossed the parking lot and ducked behind another building.

For a hair-raising moment, the maneuver threw John back into the past, and he tasted the arid-dry breeze of a far different desert on his tongue before the tang of salt from the nearby lagoon washed it out of his mouth.

Before either of them could catch their breath, John pulled the guns out of his bag and handed one to Phoenix, who was watching him with that same indecipherable expression on his face.

“Tuck it into your trousers, against the small of your back,” John instructed. He turned and lifted the back of his shirt to demonstrate, feeling the cold metal of the gun settle against his skin as he slipped it into place. He did it without thinking, and when he let his shirt drop and rotated back to face Phoenix, the man’s eyes darted up from staring at John’s back.

In hindsight, John remembered why he didn’t bare his back to strangers — why he had gone years without even attempting an intimate connection with another person. He was familiar with the network of scars that marred this skin in silvery sweeps, and years after their creation, the sight of them no longer filled him with the same dread and horror they once had. John had gone so long without revealing the marks of his past to another human being that he’d almost let himself forget the roadmap of old pain that marked his skin.

Cursing his forgetfulness and blaming the adrenaline, John tried to ignore Phoenix’s intent expression. Instead of letting himself search for horror where he only saw a burning curiousity on the man’s face, John turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Rather than allow Phoenix to question his scars, John cleared his throat and nodded at the gun in Phoenix’s hand.

“Get that out of sight,” he snapped, his voice sounding harsher than intended in the wake of his accidental vulnerability.

Phoenix jolted and blinked, then quickly did as told, reaching back to slip the gun into his waistband. When his hands fell back to his sides, he looked at John with silent expectation, that unrelenting curiousity still lingering in his eyes.

“Good.” John offered a curt nod and checked their surroundings, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. Phoenix was strangely quiet at his side, putting John on edge. The man was rarely silent unless he was assessing, thinking, obsessing, and John hated to think he might fixate on what little he’d glimpsed of John’s back.

John faced him again and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Are you staying with me, then?” At Phoenix’s questioning head tilt, John added, “You’re free to go. I won’t stop you if you decide to run. But...” John paused, considering his next words carefully.

Phoenix watched him with the same anticipatory expectation as before, his eyes riveted to John’s face. It was simultaneously unnerving and thrilling, waking something deep in John he thought was long gone. The urge to lead, to speak and be heard, lingered and flared within him, making John’s fingertips tingle with a dark excitement.

 _Figure it out, Watson,_ he thought, trying to regain his equilibrium. _You have to make a decision eventually. It’s now or never — what do you want?_

With the gun scraping against his spine, John straightened and finally said, “If you come with me, I won’t hurt you.” He forced conviction into his voice, hoping he wouldn’t prove himself a liar. John meant what he said, but trust was far easier said than done for him, and what he was promising far outweighed any risk he’d let himself take in years. “I won’t tie you up again,” he said quietly, holding Phoenix’s sharp gaze, “but I will expect you to keep up. If you fall behind, you’ll be _left behind.”_ Swallowing around a dry mouth and tightening throat, John’s face hardened. “Do you understand?”

Phoenix looked at him for a long, silent moment. His stare was piercing, striking John to his core, and John fancied he could hear the cogs turning in Phoenix’s head, the sleek machine that was the man’s brain speeding along as he considered his options. Even louder and far more alarming was the tick of time passing them by, putting John more and more on edge with every wasted second.

Slowly, a glimmer of challenge rose in Phoenix’s mercurial eyes. “I won’t fall behind,” he said in a stiff voice, almost sounding offended by the suggestion.

In spite of all his misgivings, a small smile tugged the corner of John’s mouth upward, and he pressed his lips together to smother the expression. “Good. That’s good.” He tilted his head in a curt nod, pushing back a growing sense of wonder at the man’s willing adaptability.

Now wasn’t the time to be open. The situation required hardness, and John shut down his intrigue at once. He needed to be cold, hard and brutal to keep them alive, and he pulled that persona on like a second skin.

“We need to move. I want to put as much distance between those men and us as possible.” He turned to study their surroundings, working to determine the best direction to take.

“Wait.”

Phoenix’s order made John pause, and he swung back around with a scowl. In the skin of a soldier, he had no patience for questions.

“What?” he snapped, his voice harsh. They were still far too close to danger for John’s comfort, and the ticking clock in his head was growing louder with every second. Even worse, he didn’t relish the thought of having his motives put under a microscope by Phoenix when John barely understood them himself. “Well? Spit it out,” he added at Phoenix’s hesitation.

Phoenix tensed, his expression darkening. When he asked his question, John immediately stiffened.

“Why didn’t you just leave me behind?”

Instead of answering, John offered a question of his own, “Would you have left me behind if you were in my place?”

To his surprise, Phoenix’s gaze dropped at once. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in thought. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. When he looked up again, his expression clearly communicated his unease. “Probably.”

Refusing to let the response dredge up his lingering uncertainties about the decisions he’d made, John forced himself to shrug with feigned nonchalance. Phoenix was still staring at him with the same level of intensity, expecting a response.

Focusing on the gun at his back, letting the cold, hard metal ground him, John licked his lips, a nervous tic he never could shake. “It didn’t seem like the right thing to do, alright?” He rolled his shoulders and deepened his tone into something emphatically dismissive. “If you want, I’ll leave you behind next time. But for now, I’d like to get the hell out of here.”

His words coaxed a small grin from Phoenix, and John, not for the first time, realized the man might not be entirely sane. Then again, John might be a little mad himself.

With that little smile still on his face, Phoenix tilted his head in agreement. “Lead the way, Captain.”

* * *

Sherlock didn’t understand the man’s motives. It didn’t seem like the right thing to do? What did that even mean? The man had no reason to help Sherlock, and would have been better off leaving him behind. When the man asked what he would do in the reverse situation, Sherlock answered honestly. If that was the case, Sherlock was confident he would have left the man behind. Sherlock was an unknown, a liability, a risk not worth taking for a stranger with his life on the line.

But here they were, fleeing the hotel together, Sherlock on the man’s heels with the cold metal of the gun biting into the small of his back.

His former captor’s 180-degree change of heart made Sherlock’s head spin. He’d gone from refusing to trust Sherlock to offering Sherlock his freedom and protection in the same breath. It made no sense, and Sherlock could only assume that, once again, impending danger had forced them onto the same side. This new dynamic, the tenuous alliance, was reminiscent of their teamwork in the desert. Then, it had been a brief unity, failing to last past the death of two snipers. But now, Sherlock had the man’s word that he wouldn’t treat Sherlock like a captive again — that he would keep Sherlock safe so long as Sherlock kept up with him.

It was a complete flip from their captor-captive dynamic, and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel unbalanced.

Perhaps more surprising was his _own_ willingness to trust the man. To take him at his word and follow as they fled to the edge of town, casting wary looks over their shoulders in anticipation of pursuit. It brought to mind Sherlock’s initial impression of the man: that he was, or had once been, a good man. A man of honour, who believed in something more than himself.

On the way to the drop site, Sherlock had tried to appeal to what he’d imagined was the man’s better nature, only to be rebuffed and shut down. Now, letting the man lead him along the outskirts of town and toward the waterfront, Sherlock wondered if this sudden display of altruism would last. He hoped it would, as he had no backup plan if this alliance ended the way the first had.

Despite his apparent freedom, Sherlock had little choice but to trust the man running just ahead of him, bent low to the ground and moving like some wild creature escaping danger. The man was his only hope of salvation, taking form in a stranger Sherlock had twice been caught off-guard by, and who had betrayed him easily and without remorse.

But Sherlock had no choice. Without his passports, money, and few other belongings, which were all back in Tétouan or taken by the man upon his capture, Sherlock had little hope he would survive to see out the end of the day on his own. In this way, he was still a captive. Sherlock remained tethered to his ex-captor, albeit now by necessity instead of zip ties, but a cage was a cage no matter how it looked. Even so, he realized that he still wanted to believe this time would be different. He wanted to trust that, this time, their enforced truce would last.

The man stopped, his abrupt halt shaking Sherlock from his thoughts. They had reached a wall, and the man pressed his back against it, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. It was hot, and his face was slick with sweat, mirroring Sherlock’s own clammy skin. His filthy shirt clung to his body, curls plastered to his skull by perspiration, and his morning shower already seemed like a distant memory.

“What’s the plan?” Sherlock’s words wheezed from his lips as he sucked in air with a desperation the man matched in his own loud inhales.

The man shook his head. “To stay alive,” he said, making Sherlock scowl.

“Obviously,” he snapped. The man shot him a glare.

“Don’t see you coming up with any ideas,” he growled, straightening from his bent position to meet Sherlock’s eyes with a steely expression that hardened his face into a dangerous mask. “If you’ve got any, I’m all bloody ears.”

Teeth clenched, Sherlock tore his eyes away from the man’s face and took in their surroundings. There was a walkway to their left, and a deep breath of the salty air told him it led to the lagoon. To the right was a narrow side street. Peering around the corner, ignoring the man’s hiss to stay out of sight, Sherlock looked down the street and saw the brightly-coloured signs of a market. Leaning out of view, his back against the wall once more, he looked at the man, who was silently seething at his side.

“There’s a market,” he said, tilting his chin toward the side street. “It’s likely to be crowded, which will make it easier for us to slip through without being seen.”

“Alright,” the man said slowly, his eyes narrowing. “But why?”

Sherlock cast an eye over his own body, mouth pulling to the side with distaste. “You said it yourself. I need new clothes. The market seems like the safest option for acquiring that while staying out of sight. We can blend into the crowd, as it were.”

The man’s gaze glimmered with understanding. It made his dark blue eyes sharper, catching and holding Sherlock’s attention.

“Right,” he said with a stiff nod. “Yeah, that’s good.” He shifted past Sherlock, close enough for the musky scent of his sweat and adrenaline to fill Sherlock’s nose, bringing with it a fleeting dizziness. Peering around the corner, mirroring Sherlock’s earlier position, the man nodded again. “Okay, let’s do it.” He leaned back, away from Sherlock, and felt for the small of his back, checking the gun was still in place. Hand dropping to his side, he faced Sherlock. “You ready?”

Looking at him, Sherlock took a moment to take in the man’s stiff but alert posture, the hard, challenging gleam of his dark eyes, and he tilted his head in affirmation.

“Ready.”

As expected, the market provided the perfect cover. Sherlock managed to sidle up to a stall selling hand-dyed clothing, and he purchased a pair of loose beige trousers and a light blue cotton shirt without issue, hidden in plain sight by the milling crowds. The man paid, dropping colourful bills on the counter, and then they were easing back into the throng of shoppers.

In the shadow of a palm tree, the man kept watch as Sherlock ducked behind a row of hedges. His heart pounded at the thought of being caught either by the men sent after them or the local authorities as Sherlock shed his filthy, stained clothes. He pulled on the new wardrobe, barely resisting the urge to groan in satisfaction at the feeling of clean fabric against his body. He was even willing to shrug when the material immediately clung to his sweat-damp skin, just happy to be out of his blood-and-sand-ruined clothes.

Shoving said clothes beneath a bush, Sherlock cleared his throat and hissed, “Can I come out?”

There was a short pause before the reply drifted to him through the bushes, “You’re clear.”

Grateful for the lookout, Sherlock slipped back out of the shrubbery, grimacing as small branches scratched his skin. One drew a thin line of blood down his arm, but he dismissed the minor injury. Next to the yellowing bruises on his face, Sherlock doubted anyone would notice the small spot of red on his bicep.

Rubbing it away with his thumb, he turned to the man, who looked him over with an appraising eye.

“You’re a bit less of a sore thumb now,” he said before reaching out toward Sherlock’s face. The gesture was unexpected, and Sherlock startled before forcing himself to hold still as the man froze in response to his reaction. Their eyes locked. Several expressions flickered over the man’s face before it went blank, and he reached out to pluck something from Sherlock’s hair with a surprisingly delicate touch. He held it out, spinning what Sherlock realized was a small twig between his fingers.

“Stick,” the man said, stating the obvious.

“Right. Thanks,” Sherlock managed, frowning at the lingering sensation of the man’s fingers in his hair. Inexplicably, the brief contact lit up his nerves like a light show, and he had to look away to regain his composure, flustered by his reactions.

When Sherlock looked back again, the man dropped the twig to the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. “We need to leave the city,” he said in a rough tone, kicking the toe of one booted foot against the ground with a frown. “Maybe we could go to Melilla.” He turned to Sherlock. “It’s part of Spain.”

“I know basic geography,” Sherlock snapped, worked up by his earlier fluster. He received a silently raised eyebrow in response and sighed. “I don’t have my passports.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Passports… plural?”

“Yes, plural. I’m _dead,_ remember? Can’t exactly run around using my real name, can I?”

“Oi,” the man growled, his patience seemingly exhausted. “Don’t blame me for that. I didn’t make you fake your death.”

Teeth bared in a snarl, Sherlock glared. “No, but you _did_ kidnap and drag me halfway across Morocco, leaving my passports back in Tétouan.”

Eyes widening, the man breathed a hard sigh out through his teeth. “Ah.”

“Yes, _ah,”_ Sherlock mocked in a harsh voice. “So we can’t go to Melilla because then we’d have to cross the border, and, as I’ve stated, _I don’t have my passports.”_

“Alright, alright,” the man muttered, tilting his face upward as if asking the sky itself to grant him patience. “You’re _such_ a beam of sunshine, do you know that?”

Sherlock made a wordless sound of annoyance, which the man ignored.

“Okay,” he said, squinting down at the ground in thought, “so you need your passports.” He glanced at Sherlock, his gaze evaluating. “What are the chances your stuff is still in your room?”

With his arms folded over his chest, Sherlock tilted his head in thought. “I paid for the month, so fairly good.”

The man nodded. “Right.” He paused and rubbed a thumb over his eyebrow before nodding again as he straightened and met Sherlock’s curious stare. “That’s where we’ll go, then.”

Sherlock’s forehead creased, brows dropping down into a frown. “Where?”

“Tétouan,” the man replied as if it were that simple.

Rocking back on his heels, Sherlock blinked. “It’s six hours away by car!” he exclaimed, caught off-guard by the suggestion. “Which, in case you’ve forgotten, we no longer have.”

“Yeah, I got that, thanks,” the man snapped. There was a warning in his voice. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock said in a dry voice. It earned him a glare, and a finger pointed in his face.

“You better watch that mouth of yours. I’m more than bloody happy to leave you here to find your own way.” The man’s words were a growl, his eyes flashing as he straightened to his full height and tilted his head to stare Sherlock down. Even though Sherlock was taller, he found the look hard to take head-on, and he had to fight the urge to look away as the man went on. “I don’t need to go to Tétouan, so if you want to part ways, you won’t hear me complaining.” His little rant finished, the man closed his mouth with an audible click. His lips thinned into a white line, and they stared at one another, the silence drawing out as neither seemed willing to speak first.

It was Sherlock who finally gave in, reluctantly impressed by the man’s fierce burst of ire. There was an ever-present edge of danger to everything he said and did, and Sherlock realized he didn’t doubt a word of the man’s threat. He meant what he said and was still, despite Sherlock’s venom and provocations, offering to help him.

Sherlock couldn’t help but be impressed. His trust issues aside, the man displayed not only a complexity that intrigued Sherlock, but a level of integrity Sherlock had only theorized might well dwell within him. He was simultaneously terrifying and brilliant, his dutiful offers of help at sharp odds with his abrasive manner and rough personality. He was endlessly complex, this man. When he’d been captive, Sherlock had found the dichotomous nature of his kidnapper infuriating. Now that they were more or less on the same side, Sherlock’s found his fascination growing.

“Fine,” he finally said, his response curt as he buried his rising admiration behind a forced sneer, “I’ll hold my tongue. But only if you figure out how we’re getting to Tétouan.”

The man’s eyes darkened, a sense of challenge crackling around him at Sherlock’s words. It was both alarming and captivating to behold, and Sherlock drew in a bated breath as the man’s demeanour shifted from annoyed to confidently cocky.

“Not a problem,” he said, and a sharp little smirk crept over his lips.

* * *

Standing on the roadside with his arm out and thumb cocked toward the pavement, John squinted against the sun. He watched the road and tried to ignore the petulant aura of the man standing next to him with his arms crossed over his chest.

“This is _not_ what I had in mind,” Phoenix muttered, casting a furious glare up at the sky. _“This_ is your brilliant plan?” His grousing was starting to get on John’s nerves, and he clenched his jaw as Phoenix snipped, “Hitchhiking is hardly clever.”

“Never said it was clever.” Closing his eyes and praying for patience, John tilted his head back and arched his neck, trying to work a kink out of his shoulder. When he opened them again, the road was dismally empty, and he bit back a frustrated sigh.

“Well, good. Because it’s not,” came the grumpy response from John’s unwilling companion.

John sighed. “Again, you’re more than welcome to fuck right off anytime if this isn’t good enough for you, posh boy.”

His words earned him a glare. “Stop calling me posh boy.”

“Can’t do it, sorry.”

Phoenix’s eyes narrowed dangerously. In some backwards, insane part of John’s brain, he found the display oddly attractive. He brushed the mad thought aside and huffed a dry laugh as Phoenix demanded, “And why not?”

“‘Cos you are,” John replied. Phoenix opened his mouth with an offended expression, and John cut him off. “It doesn’t matter if your clothes are dirty or that you spent the night in a two-star hotel — every inch of you screams public school.”

Scowling, Phoenix crossed his arms tighter over his chest. “How so?”

John waved a hand in his direction to indicate the entirety of him and rolled his stiff shoulders again before letting his arm drop. “The hair, your posture, that voice...Pick one. I don’t care. But all of it is posh as hell.”

“My _voice?”_ Phoenix repeated, bemused.

 _Shit,_ John thought, covering his small smile with a cough _. I should have kept that one to myself._

But Phoenix wasn’t about to let him off the hook so easily. “How does my _voice_ make me posh?” he asked, frowning at John. The expression creased the skin between his eyebrows and crinkled the top of his nose, which John shouldn’t notice, yet he noticed anyway.

“It’s… Hell, I don’t know.” John waved his hand again. “All deep and rumbly and fancy. Very stick-up-the-arse posh.”

“Charming,” Phoenix muttered. He was quiet for a moment, to John’s relief. But the respite was short-lived, as Phoenix looked down his nose at him and stated, “I’ll have you know that I’m a master at disguise."

Losing his battle to remain impassive, John snorted. He caught a flicker of a smile on Phoenix’s face before it was schooled away into a flat expression.

“Whatever you say,” John replied.

Phoenix opened his mouth again, no doubt to tell him off when he froze and pointed into the distance. “I see a car.”

Wheeling back toward the road, John stuck out his thumb and tried to look as harmless as possible. With the bandage on his cheek and the bruising on Phoenix’s face, it was no small feat, and he doubted he succeeded. When the car blew by them without slowing, John couldn’t blame the driver for giving them a pass.

Phoenix made a loud, mocking sound behind him, adding insult to injury, and John shot a deadly glare over his shoulder.

“Not a word,” he growled as his left hand flexed into a fist at his side. Phoenix stared at him with narrowed eyes before his gaze dropped to John’s hand and his mouth clicked shut with a hard snap as he seemed to think better of whatever comment he’d been considering.

Grateful for the obedience, John turned his attention back to the road and stuck his thumb out again. “Hitchhiking is a popular way to travel in Morocco,” he said after fifteen minutes passed in silence, and the quiet of the empty, stretching road began to eat away at his sanity. He waited for a response and, receiving none, added, “Tourists and locals both make use of it. It’s free, easy, and—”

“A great way to be murdered by strangers,” Phoenix interrupted in an irritated mumble. John rolled his eyes.

“I think I’m more likely to murder you if you don’t shut that mouth of yours.”

To his relief, Phoenix subsided with a pout.

The sun beat down, and John dropped his arm to bend his back. Listening to the various cracks and pops of his spine, he grimaced. It seemed it was true what people said, that old age got everyone in the end. Maybe it was time for retirement. He wasn’t even forty yet, but hanging up his gun belt for good seemed tantalizingly close to bliss right now, and John entertained the thought as he stuck his thumb out again. Bali still sounded lovely. Blue waters and white sand. No more sneaking around and chasing after marks. No more mouthy posh boys, though John hoped he never encountered another person as insufferable as Phoenix for as long as he lived.

Though, if someone didn’t pull over for them soon, that might not be for much longer.

 _God,_ but retirement sounded good.

A sound caught John’s attention. It was the faint, droning noise of an engine, and John blinked against the sun as he turned his focus back to the road. He watched a truck appear over the gentle rise in the distance, disrupting the flat line of the horizon, and he lifted his arm with a surge of hope.

Amazingly, just as John was starting to think that this driver would also blow past them, he heard the unmistakable sound of the engine gearing down. A grin spread over his face, and he stepped back as the truck pulled over. With the engine idling, the driver rolled the window down and leaned forward.

“You need a lift?” It was an older man, his dark brown skin wrinkled by years of sun, and he spoke in heavily-accented English. His eyes, a faded light brown, scanned over them both. “Where you travelling to?”

John hesitated before Phoenix stepped forward. With an unexpectedly disarming smile on his face, his pale skin reddened by exposure to the harsh sun, he said, “Midar. It’s not far.”

“Nope, only hour and a half,” the man replied agreeably. The truck was a small two-seater, and he waved at the box. “Sit in the back, and I’ll take you.”

With that startlingly pleasant smile still on his face, Phoenix nodded. “Thank you,” he replied before circling to the back and climbing over the tailgate.

John paused to thank the man and jogged around to the back of the truck, lifting himself up and into the box with a grunt. As he settled next to Phoenix and braced himself against the outside of the cab, he frowned. “Why Midar?”

“There’s a bus station.” Phoenix squinted against the wind as the truck rumbled onto the road and picked up speed. Sweaty curls blowing back from his brow, he crouched to avoid the force of the wind, blinking involuntary tears from his watering eyes. “It’ll take us directly to Tétouan.” To the unspoken question in John’s expression, he said, “It’s how I travelled there in the first place.”

John nodded and crossed his arms over his bent knees, pulling them against his chest. “Midar it is, then.”


	9. Victim of Circumstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to navigate their unfamiliar new dynamic, Sherlock and John travel to Tétouan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please peep those end notes for some author talk and information about the chapter/story.

They arrived in Midar just as late day began to creep upon the scenery. The sky darkened at the horizon, the oncoming evening stealing away the azure hue of the afternoon.

The truck pulled up outside the city limits, and Sherlock jumped out the second it stopped. The man leapt out after, moving around to the cab to thank their driver. Sherlock waited, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other, for the man to join him. When he did, Sherlock turned away from the road and toward Midar.

Standing at the edge of the city, they listened to the truck amble back onto the highway and drive toward the darkening horizon. As it died away, Sherlock turned to the man. Eyebrow raised, he asked, “Alright, now what?”

The man dragged a hand over his stubble-darkened jaw. His palm made a harsh rasping noise against the stiff growth. “You’re exhausting,” he said with a tired sigh. “I’m _exhausted.”_

Sherlock shot him a look but managed to hold his tongue. Instead of dwelling on the comment or responding, he strode toward the city without waiting for his companion. The gun at his back shifted with his stride, the skin-warmed metal rubbing against the dip of his spine as Sherlock listened for the sound of following footsteps.

“Oh, are you actually making a decision for once?” The comment was cocky, and, his eyes narrowed, Sherlock glared over his shoulder. The man dared to smirk at him.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I spent the last day and a half at your mercy,” Sherlock bit out, upper lip curling back. “I wasn’t exactly in the ideal position for decision-making.”

The man’s mouth pulled to the side in a wry grimace, and he fell silent. They walked into town with the edge of evening hovering on the horizon, Sherlock leading the way with a twinge of deja vu, struck by how different a man he’d been when he first entered Midar. Though his time in Morocco began no more than a few weeks before, Sherlock found that he felt irrevocably changed since then. The ordeal of the past few days was partially to blame, but Sherlock thought the most significant difference was that he’d been alone then.

He certainly wasn’t alone now.

Sherlock led the way to the bus station, silently grateful to have the man’s wary attention on his side. He scanned their surroundings with a focus Sherlock found admirable, his intensity rivalling Sherlock’s own awareness. The way he surveyed the area was reminiscent of the focus Sherlock reserved for crime scenes and murders. It was both a comfort and a reminder that the man was not only dangerous but a stranger.

Sherlock thought he would do well to remember that.

They passed various buildings and milling people, the city still active as night rushed in from the outskirts. After a stretch of silent walking, the bus depot came into view, and Sherlock stopped. Patting the pockets of his new trousers, he cursed under his breath. The man halted with him, raising an eyebrow.

“Problem?”

Sherlock scowled, hands dropping back to his sides. “I don’t have any money. _Someone,”_ he looked pointedly at the man, “took it from me.”

“Right,” came the droll reply. “Well, seeing as you’re meant to be dead anyway and have no ID, I’ll buy the tickets.”

Sherlock bit back a sharp retort and followed him into the depot. The queue was blessedly short, the evening travellers scattered into small groups within. Sherlock eyed them each in turn, deducing little details that struck him as commonplace and utterly lacking in interest. After their narrow escape in Nador, Sherlock was grateful for the banality. Boring meant safe, and for once, he preferred it.

He turned his attention forward as his ex-captor reached the front of the line.

“Two tickets to Tétouan,” he said to the man at the window. The response came in Arabic.

“Name?”

Sherlock stared. His curiousity was evident and earned a wary look from his companion. Instead of feigning disinterest, Sherlock continued to stare, his mind whirling. Would he give his real name? A fake name? Tell the ticket-seller to fuck off?

With a surge of annoyance, Sherlock realized he couldn’t predict the answers to his own questions.

Finally, his former captor dragged his eyes away from Sherlock’s intense expression and turned back to the window. “John,” he said in a low voice. “Just John.” The last was spoken firmly, and the ticket seller's eyebrows rose before he nodded and turned to his computer.

Sherlock pulled a face at the evidently fake name. A twinge of disappointment reminded him that he still knew little about the man, and he stewed over the thought.

“137.51 dirham,” the man behind the counter said. Sherlock’s former captor — ‘John’ — dug into his pocket and paid the amount. He received two tickets in exchange, the ticket-seller adding, “Bus leaves in an hour and a half.”

“Thanks,” John said in his clumsy Arabic before turning back to Sherlock. “I need to eat.” Slipping the bus tickets into his bag, he shrugged it back over his shoulder and led the way out onto the street.

Following on his heels, Sherlock waited until they were outside before speaking. “If you’re going to use a fake name, you could at least pick something more imaginative than _John.”_ Warming to his topic, he went on in a hushed whisper, “John has to be the most common, most _boring_ name choice you could have made. Though, maybe that’s not a bad idea…” His voice turned thoughtful, considering. “It doesn’t stand out, and almost all languages have some variant of John. But still,” Sherlock pulled a face, “it’s rather dull.”

John shot him an odd look. He was silent for so long that Sherlock paused and stared at him. Finally, John shrugged and said, “It worked well enough.” His voice was curt, and he sounded irritated by Sherlock’s little rant.

Sherlock frowned. He waited for more, but ‘John’ didn’t speak again, and Sherlock’s stomach growled loud enough that he willingly let the subject drop.

They found a small restaurant, still open and nearby. Tucked into a table in the corner, John stared hungrily at the menu and ordered several dishes. Sherlock was more reserved, settling for an order of _zaalouk_ and mint tea. His appetite was rarely large, and a lingering sense of unease from their close call in Nador had reduced it further.

As they waited for their food, a heavy silence fell over the table. Sherlock rubbed at a smudge of dirt on his arm, overly-aware of the gun at his back. John sat across from him and eyed the front door with a wariness that made it impossible to forget he’d once been a soldier.

“So, the bus,” Sherlock said when the silence became too much to bear. Across from him, John shifted and turned his gaze from the door. He cocked his head to the side and met Sherlock’s eyes.

“What about it?”

Sherlock fiddled with a spoon before forcing himself to stop. He folded his hands in his lap to keep still, opened his mouth to respond, and snapped it shut when their food appeared. Once it was set on the table and their server left once more, he watched John eye his food with evident hunger.

Taking pity on him, Sherlock said, “Go ahead.” He resisted the urge to smile at John’s apparent relief.

They dug into their meals, John eating his _bastilla_ with a single-minded intensity and focus that Sherlock recognized as characteristic of soldiers. Despite his mechanical eating method, John seemed to enjoy the pigeon pie, reaching for a plate of spicy sardines once he was finished with the dish.

Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of his own food, sipped at his tea, hummed, and said, “Are you afraid someone might steal your food away before you’ve had the chance to swallow it whole?”

John shot him a sour look. “In case you missed it, that was a close call in Nador.” Taking another bite, he swallowed, wiped his hands on a napkin, and sat back. The gaze he fixed on Sherlock was tense, his eyes dark and hard. “I’m not stupid enough to assume they won’t find us again. I plan to eat when I can, keep up my energy, and stay alert.”

The brief sense of amusement banished by the grave words, Sherlock sobered. “You think they’ll follow us?”

His lips pressing into a thin line, John’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Do you really think they won’t?” His nose crinkled, his gaze judgemental. “I thought you were supposed to be a genius.”

Sherlock sneered, piqued by the implication that he was anything less than brilliant. “Are you insinuating that I’m not?”

“Not insinuating.” John leaned forward and lowered his voice, drawing Sherlock in with his hushed tone. “Look, maybe you _are_ that intelligent. But that doesn’t mean you’re smart. There _is_ a difference.” Tapping his fingertips against the table, he added, “I haven’t managed to stay alive this long without expecting the worst.”

Breathing out a low sigh, Sherlock reluctantly replied, “What a way to live.”

“Exactly.” John sat back and dragged another sardine onto his plate. “Now you’re getting it.”

The rest of the meal passed in relative quiet, broken only by the sounds of eating and drinking. Sherlock was pensive, still simmering with resentment at John’s suggestion that he would underestimate the level of danger. It was true that he hadn’t lived the same life as John, but his last few years had taught him not to overlook the tenacity of Moriarty’s network. It had been constructed by a madman and reflected that influence in its remaining structure. It only tracked that its members would embody that same devil-may-care attitude.

Sherlock was swirling the dregs of his tea with a thoughtful expression when John finished eating and ended the silence.

“So, the bus.” He wiped a napkin over his mouth before folding it into a neat little square and setting it next to his plate. “You were saying?”

Sherlock placed his cup on the table with a delicate click of crockery against wood. “It’s an eleven-hour trip.” Hands folded in his lap, he leaned back and watched John’s face closely. “We’ll be travelling through the night and part of the morning.”

“And?” John tilted his head, his gaze evaluating. “Is that a problem for you?” When Sherlock didn’t reply, John frowned. “It’s not one for me — I’ve travelled in far less pleasant ways, both in the army and after. Travelling by bus sounds like a vacation compared to clinging to the open side of a helicopter over active fire.”

“It might be crowded and loud,” Sherlock pointed out. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say with the observation. Somewhere in the depths of his Mind Palace rose a snippet of reading. Crowded areas with no escape, soldiers who served in active warzones. Though Sherlock was no expert on mental health or Post-Traumatic Stress, he thought the environment might at least leave John feeling unsettled. He had little to no proof of John experiencing PTSD, but he wasn’t sure he was prepared to address such an intense disorder if it cropped up on a bus full of strangers.

John’s frown deepened, his eyes darkening. Belatedly, Sherlock realized he had struck a nerve and was struggling to formulate an appropriate response when John said, “Pretty sure the helicopter still beats the most crowded bus. Probably easier to sleep on the bus, too.”

Abandoning his aimless questioning, Sherlock shrugged and lifted his cup to his mouth. He downed the rest of the tea and returned the cup to the table before he stood. “I still don’t have any money,” he said pointedly, glaring at John’s duffle. The change in topic, paired with his snark, was an offered lifeline that John gratefully accepted, albeit with an eye roll.

“Git.” Instead of validating Sherlock’s statement with a response, John dug out some money and left it on the table. “Let’s go.” He pushed back his chair and rose, the duffle slung over his shoulder once more. “The bus will be here soon.”

* * *

They left the restaurant in a heavy silence.

As they walked back to the bus depot, John wondered at Phoenix’s strange questions. Clearly, he’d been trying to determine _something_ , though John had no idea what. If the man wasn’t so reliant on him for safety, John might have thought Phoenix was trying to identify John’s weaknesses. But John failed to see how asking about his comfort level with a long trip on a crowded bus would help determine that. Maybe it had been an attempt at conversation, albeit a strange one?

Whatever the purpose, the questioning left him feeling uneasy. While John knew he’d be fine, he didn’t relish the idea of being trapped on a bus for eleven hours. It left them vulnerable, with no escape route should they be attacked. But, almost worse than that, John dreaded the eleven hours spent stuck with Phoenix, with no distraction from his intense focus. The man didn’t strike John as someone capable of self-distraction. He had little doubt that Phoenix would be insufferable within an hour on the road.

His dread aside, John was still grappling with his decision to help Phoenix, avoiding the urge to look too closely at his own motives. He wasn’t looking forward to Phoenix discovering the rationale for him. With any luck, he’d be able to sleep and avoid some of the likely inescapable analysis of his psyche. It was bad enough that John had given his name to the man selling the bus tickets. He hadn’t planned to, but the moment came, and John was unprepared. In hindsight, the situation struck him as moronic — John should have anticipated it. He _knew_ Phoenix didn’t have any money. Most of his personal belongings, sparse as they were, lay within John’s duffle.

In giving up his name, John had bared a part of himself to Phoenix. Whether Phoenix realized it or not was of little concern to John’s nerves.

The bus depot came into view, and John wondered if some small part of his subconscious hadn’t sabotaged him. That Phoenix thought the name a fake should have been a relief. And yet, John was annoyed by the misunderstanding, almost as if he _wanted_ Phoenix to know his name. To know _him_.

They reached the stop outside the depot, and John took the opportunity to close his eyes. He rubbed tired hands over his face and tried to make sense of what his mind was telling him. Because it sounded like it was saying that he wanted to bare himself to Phoenix, and that wasn’t an option. To let himself be known was to let himself be vulnerable, and John couldn’t afford that. He never could afford that, not as a soldier, as a mercenary, and certainly not here, with Phoenix.

 _Get your shit together, Watson._ John scrubbed harder at his face and tried to push away his cyclical thoughts. He reminded himself that Phoenix was not his ally, no matter the situation. It was temporary, just a response to the danger. Phoenix was a stranger, a liability, a walking mark who had painted a target on John’s back. Now wasn’t the time to lose his focus. Now wasn’t the time to start thinking about what it might be like to have someone understand him. To no longer be alone, to know that someone had his back.

The last time John believed in someone else, it nearly cost him his life. Deepening trust would only increase the oncoming danger and might get them both killed. Thus far, John had managed to avoid being picked apart by Phoenix’s analytic brain. Granted, Phoenix was a captive for much of that time, with no upper hand to speak of. With their dynamic drastically changed, John could no longer hide behind violence and control. He could only brace himself for what must be coming, try to fortify his mental barriers against Phoenix’s prying.

In comparison, John thought he’d almost prefer being shot again.

Almost.

Hands dropping from his face, John straightened his back and squared his shoulders. The gun against his spine was a comforting weight as he scanned their surroundings. Falling back into a state of alert watchfulness, he studied the other passengers waiting with them, searching for the tell-tale bulk of weapons under loose clothing. Though John didn’t notice anything out of place, that didn’t mean they were in the clear. And, in that same place of wary focus, he waited stiffly until the bus pulled up five minutes later, right on time.

Digging the tickets out of his bag, he led the way on board. Phoenix was unnaturally quiet, seemingly willing to leave John to his thoughts. His silence was both a blessing and unexpected, and John should have known it wouldn’t last.

They reached the back of the bus, and John moved aside to let Phoenix sit first. But he hesitated, eyes darting from John to the indicated seat, and he didn’t move.

John sighed.

“Sit down.” He eyed the other passengers as they settled throughout the bus before looking at Phoenix. He still hadn’t moved. “If anything happens, I need to be in the aisle seat.”

One of Phoenix’s brows rose. “Why should I be the trapped one?”

John clenched his jaw. His response was quiet, hissed out through his bared teeth, “You’re not trapped, you’re protected. Now, sit the fuck down or get off the bus and make your own way.” Casting a look around the bus, John was relieved to see no one was paying them any mind. He turned back to Phoenix with a dangerous smile. “Trust me or don’t. I really couldn’t give less of a shit which you choose, but you need to make a bloody decision now because I’m tired of this back and forth.”

The words were only partially true, but John meant it when he said he was tired. He was exhausted by the constant battle between them and, while he understood Phoenix’s reluctance, they didn’t have the luxury of doubt.

Clearly taken aback, Phoenix blinked. He stared at John for so long, frowning as his eyes roved over John’s face, that John finally growled, “Piss or get off the pot.”

To his surprise, Phoenix immediately dropped into the window seat with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

“Alright, then,” John muttered, sinking down with a sigh. He allowed himself a fleeting moment of respite before scanning the faces of each passenger who boarded after them. He had no chance of knowing what their pursuers might look like, but that didn’t stop him from searching.

He started when Phoenix leaned closer and, his voice barely more than a whisper, asked, “What are you looking for?”

John shook his head, still studying each person as they boarded. “Weapons, watchfulness. Anything suspicious.”

Still inclined toward John, Phoenix faced the front of the bus and narrowed his eyes. “That man is an accountant,” he said, tilting his chin toward a man who took the seat two rows ahead. “And that younger man, his wife is expecting. No, likely in labour,” he amended, nodding to himself. “It’s their first child. He’s nervous and trying to hide it. Not doing a great job.” Phoenix’s eyes scanned the bus, settled on a group of three people. “That family lost someone. An uncle? A brother? Someone close. They’re travelling to meet with extended family.”

Dumfounded, staring as Phoenix rattled off his observations in a rapid-fire whisper meant for his ears alone, John blinked. “How can you possibly know all that?”

Phoenix turned his sharp eyes onto John. “I told you,” he said quietly, holding John’s gaze, “I see everything.”

John nodded, the gesture quick and curt. “Right.” Swallowing, he broke eye contact, watching the last few people climb on board with the driver following. “It’s…” he paused, brow furrowed, and chose his words with care. “It’s impressive.” From the corner of his eye, John saw the edge of Phoenix’s mouth twitch upward in a small, pleased smile. He didn’t expect a thank you for the compliment and didn’t receive one.

The bus rumbled to life. The sound and vibration pulled John’s attention from his internal musings, and he settled deeper into his seat. No longer perched on the edge, some of his wariness eased by Phoenix’s observations, John folded his hands in his lap. He shifted to keep the gun in his waistband from digging into his spine and closed his eyes. Despite the facade of composure, he was still unbalanced, failing to shake the feeling that if he let himself fully relax, danger would find them.

After years spent on alert for the first hints of attack, John couldn’t settle.

He moved restlessly, searching for a comfortable position where none could be found. He was at it for so long that Phoenix finally jerked toward him and snapped, “Can’t you be still?”

John opened one eye and glared. “Can’t you shut up?”

Phoenix scoffed, the sound as vicious as it was muted. “I’m trying to, but I can’t bloody _think_ with you wiggling about like that.”

“Not my problem,” John said simply, closing his eyes once more.

They both lapsed into silence. Phoenix’s was tense and seething, John’s unperturbed. As the engine noise rumbled through the seat and into his body, John asked, “What are you thinking about?”

Phoenix jolted, evidently startled by the unexpected question. “Nothing,” he said, sounding flustered. “Everything,” he then amended, making John raise an eyebrow. He didn’t comment beyond the gesture, and Phoenix huffed before turning his glare out the window.

Another stretch of quiet passed. Listening to the hushed murmurs of the other passengers as they wove through the drone of the engine, John sighed and dropped his head back against the seat. “We should talk about Tétouan.”

Phoenix favoured him with a sideways glance. “Yes.”

Rolling the tension from his shoulders, John kicked his bag further under the seat and sat up. He cast a watchful eye over the other passengers before turning and leaning closer to Phoenix. “They’ll be watching your room. You realize that, yeah?”

His eyes focused on John’s face, Phoenix took a second to consider the statement and nodded. “It seems likely.”

“It’s more than likely.” John frowned. “It’s almost certain.” With their faces so close together, he could see a small, dark spot in Phoenix’s right eye, as well as a ring of green around his pupils. The band interrupted the pale blue of Phoenix’s irises, the colours bold and distinct. _Central heterochromia,_ John thought, blinking as he realized Phoenix was speaking.

“What do we do if they find us there?”

His lips pursed, John leaned back an inch to gain a bit of space between them. Up close, Phoenix’s gaze was even more intense, and it made John’s head swim to face that clarity head-on.

“I thought that was fairly obvious,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

Phoenix squinted. His dark eyelashes were thick, casting his hypnotic gaze into shadow. “Is it?”

A small, tight smile twitched along John’s lips, and his gaze hardened. The gun against his back pressed into his spine, the cool metal a cruel reminder of his particular brand of violence.

“We take them out.”

After John’s statement, Phoenix was quiet. Leaving him to his thoughts, John subsided into a pensive silence. Phoenix sat facing the window, his brow furrowed, gaze on the glass. John wondered what he was thinking about with such intensity and bit his tongue to keep from asking.

Eventually, Phoenix’s eyes closed. With his head tipped against the window, he appeared to be asleep.

John sat and people-watched for a while, staying wary and on-edge until the hum of the engine lulled him into a doze. He hovered somewhere between sleep and awareness, a place he’d learned to straddle in his time as a soldier. The state of mind, awake but not entirely, had gotten him through many nights. Nights where he waited for action, for casualties, for panicked voices requesting medic support. It let him fade from the immediate moment without losing conscious awareness of his surroundings.

He let his mind wander, sorting through the events of the past couple of days. As he listened to the other passengers' quiet sounds, the faint rustling noise of Phoenix shifting in his seat, John tried to make sense of how he’d arrived here. It was almost unbelievable that only two days had passed since he first met the man who had become his unwilling companion. It was hard to coincide the sheer amount of events into what felt like such a small span of time. Those two days seemed endless. Like years had passed instead.

The bone-deep weariness hanging over John only emphasized the thought.

As the trip continued beyond the two-hour mark and nothing twigged John’s internal alarms, he slipped closer to a true doze. He shifted in his seat, spread his legs, searched for more room in the limited space, and settled. Next to him, Phoenix didn’t stir, not even when John’s boot knocked against his. The man was curled into himself, tilted forward and sideways with his head resting on the window, dark curls crushed against the glass.

John watched him with half-open eyes. He took in his sharp features and the shadows cast by his long, dark eyelashes. Fascinated without reason, John stared at those lashes. He’d never seen such long eyelashes on a man and marvelled. It seemed a strange thing to notice, and John finally closed his eyes with a scowl.

_Dammit, Watson. Keep it in your pants._

It was a reluctant fact that John had been alone for a long time, both intimately and otherwise. When John tried to remember the last time he’d been this close to someone without exacting some kind of violence upon them, he came up empty. His last intimate interaction had been in Afghanistan, months before the bullet shattered his collarbone and bought him a one-way ticket back to London. It was lonely, his life, but the perpetual danger and risk helped take the edge off.

Now, John tried to tell himself he could allow some small amount of leeway. Phoenix was an attractive man. More than that, he was almost beautiful, all his harsh edges and the angles of his face somehow working together to make him easy on the eyes. John couldn’t begrudge himself the faint flicker of interest that rose when he looked at the man’s sleeping face. When he noticed his height and slender, powerful body.

John was only human. He saw an attractive person, he noticed. Man, woman, non-binary, genderfluid, it didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered once John was out of his parent’s house and out in the world, and it didn’t matter now. After years of experience, experimenting and staying open to new situations, he knew who he was. John was comfortable with his sexuality. But that didn’t mean he had the luxury of pursuing it. Not now, not anymore, not since Afghanistan. Not since misplaced, blind trust nearly cost him his life.

Noticing was all he would allow. Which was easy, as the current situation didn’t exactly encourage more. Phoenix was a stranger, John had once been his captor, and danger dogged their every movement. All of John’s focus needed to stay on the situation at hand. He meant to survive, planned to outlive their pursuers, and letting himself be distracted by some pretty eyelashes and oceanic eyes wasn’t an option.

Besides, despite his looks, Phoenix was _insufferable_. John thought the man could easily drive him mad with words alone. If they’d met in different circumstances, John wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stand Phoenix long enough to bother learning his name. The fact that he didn’t even know his real name now was just some kind of cosmic joke.

It really was better if he kept his distance. With any luck, they’d be rid of one another soon. John didn’t see how their forced alliance could last beyond escaping their immediate danger, and the thought was as strangely bittersweet as it was a relief.

His mind somewhat settled, John crossed his arms over his chest and pressed his lips into a tight line. As soon as Phoenix was away and on his own, and John was rid of him, he’d deal with this annoying sexual frustration. There were places John could go, places that took care of their sex workers, where he could burn off his carnal needs with a willing partner without worrying about attachments. He’d indulge, wipe the slate clean with Phoenix by paying off his karmic debt to the man and put this entire experience behind him.

The thought was comforting, and John let himself relax. Gradually, his arms fell slack and hands settling into his lap, he slept.

He woke from a strange dream to silence. The sky in the dream had been red, and the ground had slipped beneath his feet like glass. The fading remnants reminded John of Afghanistan, and he woke with a start. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, John tensed and looked around. He slowly noted the bus had stopped, and it was full dark outside, the interior lit by faint overhead lights.

Disoriented, John looked at Phoenix. He was awake. As if sensing John’s eyes on him, Phoenix turned away from the window. “You’re awake.”

Still groggy, John tilted his head from side to side, easing a kink from his neck. Arms stretched over his head, he grunted and looked toward the front of the bus. “Why’ve we stopped?”

“We’re at the next depot.” Phoenix pushed his long legs beneath the seat in front of him in a stretch. He made a low, groaning noise before going loose and turning to John. “I need to use the loo.”

John sighed. “Of course you do.” Rising, he stepped into the aisle, noting that several seats were empty. He frowned and looked up at Phoenix as the man stood. He had to duck his head as the low ceiling prevented him from straightening to his full height. “How long have we been stopped for?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes.” Phoenix turned toward the front of the bus, but John reached out, touching his arm and stopping him before he realized what he was doing.

Phoenix looked over his shoulder with surprise, and John dropped his hand, clearing his throat. “Why didn’t you wake me?” At Phoenix’s questioning head tilt, John added, “If you had to use the loo, I mean. You could have just woken me up.”

His eyes slid away, and Phoenix looked toward the front of the bus again. For a moment, John didn’t think he would reply, but then he did, muttering, “Seemed kinder to let you sleep.”

In an immediate knee-jerk reaction to the kind regard, John deflected. Face hardening, he said, “Kindness? That doesn’t sound like you.”

Phoenix stiffened. Though his face was turned away, John sensed him closing off, his gentle expression no doubt wiped clear. With the awareness came instant regret. But the words were out and spoken, and instead of apologizing, John reminded himself that it was better this way. It was better that they kept their distance. And if that meant rebuffing any attempt at kindness on Phoenix’s part, then John would do it again.

Aware that Phoenix was still rigid and silent, John cleared his throat. “Well?” he said in a gruff voice, nudging the back of Phoenix’s boot with his toe, “do you need to take a piss or what?”

Phoenix barely reacted. But he began to move forward, making his way between the seats with his head ducked. Something in the way he moved made John think Phoenix’s hunched shoulders had less to do with the low ceiling of the bus and more to do with an attempt to shield himself from John’s cruel words. Guilt rippled through him at the realization, but John forced it back and clenched his teeth.

After a life of regret, what was one more drop in a seemingly bottomless bucket?

* * *

John’s words stung. Sherlock tried to brush them off like water off a duck’s back, but they burrowed deep. Worked their way under his skin and festered alongside all the other cruel words he’d internalized throughout his life.

He relieved himself in the bus depot washroom, glad for the privacy. At the sinks, Sherlock scrubbed his hands nearly raw under hot water and wondered why he cared. All his life, he’d swallowed the poison people turned his way, and while it hadn’t made him stronger, it helped him learn to pretend it had. If he acted like the things people said meant nothing, then maybe, one day, they would stop being said.

Yet every time it happened — and it always did — Sherlock realized his so-called thick skin was paper-thin. Made vulnerable by circumstance, John’s words cut him to the quick. He stared at his reflection, at his bruised face and swollen, split lip, and wondered when it would stop. Would there come a day when people turned to him with respect?

If he didn’t manage to dismantle the rest of Moriarty’s network, Sherlock knew he’d never have an answer. And John, with all his rough edges and his impenetrable walls, might be his last chance to succeed. The realization was far from a comfort, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Sherlock may as well be on his knees for all the upper hand he had.

Drying his palms on his trousers, Sherlock turned away from his reflection and left the bathroom. He didn’t see John outside. He wasn't among the other passengers, and Sherlock was surprised by the sudden alarm that rose in response to the observation. It took work to shake the sensation off. With a strange blend of emotions buzzing through him, Sherlock stalked toward the bus. He ignored the other passengers and stepped inside, moving down the aisle with hunched shoulders and cursing the low ceiling.

There were times when his height was an asset: this was not one of them.

He reached their seats, found John’s empty, and frowned. Resisting the urge to look outside, Sherlock settled into his seat next to the window. He took advantage of the moment to consider how quickly John had brushed off his small attempt at kindness. Fingers pressed to his temples, his forehead tipped against the back of the seat in front of him, Sherlock closed his eyes.

If he looked at the incident with his usual rationality and logic, Sherlock knew that they were both better off if they kept their distance. They were strangers, recently enemies, hardly allies. Necessity didn’t equal willingness, didn’t promise friendship. Neither of them had asked to be in the situation they currently found themselves navigating.

Regardless, they were in this together. All the reluctance in the world couldn’t change that. They were tethered together as surely as Sherlock had been tethered to the bed in Nador. One way or another, they had to learn to work together. But there was a fine line that had to be respected, and Sherlock found he didn’t know where it began. It was his fault that he’d tried to extend anything beyond the barest courtesy to a man who made his living in murder and violence. It had been irrational, but John had asked why Sherlock didn’t wake him, and the truth had just slipped out. After years of lying — to himself, his parents, brother, clients, the police, almost everyone — Sherlock was as shocked by the honesty as John had appeared.

He shouldn’t let it happen again. Nor should he expect John to reciprocate. He was a hard man, a cruel man when required, and Sherlock’s misplaced trust would do nothing to endear John to him. He should hope for teamwork and nothing more. In John’s case, that meant not forcing Sherlock onto his knees and putting a bullet in the back of his head. Kind words didn’t even begin to come into it, nor should they. This wasn’t friendship. They weren’t two blokes looking for a kindred spirit in one another. Though lonely and alone they may both be, it was hardly a reason for either of them to seek out a connection in the other.

John didn’t owe Sherlock kindness in any form, just as Sherlock didn’t owe him the same. Even basic civility might be too much to ask from John, and Sherlock wasn’t enough of an emotional moron to request it. If he was smart, he would withdraw. Retreat into himself and stop searching for a glimmer of remorse in the man who had so recently been his captor. Sherlock would do well to remember his brother’s words — to remind himself that alone kept him safe.

 _Alone protects me,_ he thought, eyes flashing open as he sensed a presence and turned his head to find John stopped at the end of their seat row.

_Alone is what I have._

John looked down at him with a complicated expression. He looked regretful and frustrated, the simultaneous emotions twisting his mouth to the side.

Forehead once again tilted against the seat in front of him, Sherlock waited for him to speak. He stared at John from the edge of his vision, and John stayed silent. Finally, when he didn’t so much as move a muscle to sit down, Sherlock sighed, “What?”

John hesitated. His eyes flickered over Sherlock, lingered on his curved back before he held out a hand. “Here.” There was a bottle of water and a package of what looked like crisps in his grip. Sherlock eyed the offerings for a moment before sitting back and frowning.

“What is this?

Still silent, John held the items out more insistently. He avoided Sherlock’s gaze, his eyes fixed on the window over Sherlock’s head. “Just take them, would you?” His voice sounded strained. Sherlock found himself complying without thought, only realizing what he’d done when the food was in his hands, and John was seated next to him.

His fingers tightening around the water bottle, Sherlock looked down at the crisps. Perplexed, he muttered, “Thanks.”

John paused in opening a second water bottle. Slowly, he unfroze and cracked the lid. He lifted the bottle to his lips, drank and swallowed before replying, “Yeah. No problem.”

The bus rumbled back onto the road, and the journey continued. Sherlock dozed again, woke to sip his water and slipped back into a dreamless sleep. He hadn’t expected to, not with the overstimulation of his surroundings, but the other passengers were quiet, and an unexpected serenity crept over him. Maybe it was the salt and fat from the crisps, but he felt sated. With his height, Sherlock was effectively crammed into his seat, caught between John and the window. Instead of making him feel trapped, the bubble-like nature of his surroundings coaxed him into a comfortable lull. Exhausted from the past two days, sleep crept up on him with far more ease than Sherlock was accustomed to.

His rest was deep and dreamless. When he woke again, he saw that John was also awake. His upper body was turned toward Sherlock, but his eyes were on the window, gaze unfocused as he watched the night-dark scenery flash by.

As if feeling Sherlock’s regard, John’s focus shifted to his face. Their eyes met, and the contact held. It stretched out and strengthened until Sherlock felt strangely emboldened by the steady regard. His burning curiousity rose unbidden, and he blurted out the first thought that formed in his head, a question that refused to dissipate.

“Why did you become a mercenary?”

John stiffened at the question. His open, receptive expression slammed shut as his face closed off and his eyes narrowed, lashes casting his dark gaze into shadow. The sight of his withdrawal, so immediate and forceful, made Sherlock wish he hadn’t asked. But it was too late to take the question back, and he braced himself for the outcome of his curiousity.

“Why?” John’s voice was slow and suspicious.

Sherlock lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. Internally, he cursed his own inquisitiveness. “I just wondered.”

Eyes narrowed, John said, “Not sure that’s a good enough reason for me to tell you my life story.”

Sherlock mirrored John’s expression, squinting at him in the dark. “I told you _mine_ ,” he pointed out, feeling a flicker of frustration at the double standard.

John was silent for a moment. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, which looked baked-dry from the heat. When he didn’t still didn’t speak, Sherlock sighed.

“You pointed a gun at me and forced me to tell you my life story.” Jaw clenched, he tilted his head forward and lowered his voice. “It only seems fair that you return the favour.”

A muscle leapt in John’s left cheek, and Sherlock caught a flash of his teeth as his lips peeled back in a brief snarl. But it disappeared as quick as it came, leaving John’s face looking haggard. “Fine,” he said in a curt tone that left no illusion to his reluctance, “I’ll tell you.”

Surprised by what felt like only token resistance, Sherlock settled back into his seat. He was secretly pleased and hid it as he folded his hands in his lap, feet tucked beneath the chair in front of him. Body angled toward John, he offered an attentive expression and waited.

It took John a moment to begin. Before he did, his eyes drifted away from Sherlock’s face. They returned to the window, his sharp gaze softening as it unfocused.

“I wanted to be a doctor,” he said, still not looking at Sherlock, “but my family didn’t have the money. I had two choices — give up on what everyone said was a pipe dream, or find another way to pay for school.” John’s lips flattened into a thin line, and his voice turned hollow. “So I signed up for the medical corps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few things: _zaalouk_ (or _Zalouk,_ is a Moroccan salad of cooked aubergine and tomatoes. It is seasoned with garlic and spices. _Bastilla_ is a flaky pie, usually made with pigeon or chicken, sometimes fish and other meat. 
> 
> Also, I'm working on not writing so many long, run-on sentences. If so inclined, please let me know if you notice a change in the narrative. I.e.: if it feels choppy or reads differently, and let me know if it's better or worse. I feel it's a bit choppy at the start and flows better later, but I'm curious to know what people think. No pressure to do so if you'd rather just read! 
> 
> Also also: Pansexual John Watson. 
> 
> Also also _also:_ I apologize if the story seems slow rn, I'm trying to keep the chapters around 4k (tho this one ended up being 7k!), and I promise things will start to pick up soon. This is, after all, the slowest of burns. BTW, I'm playing with the idea of a sequel or breaking this fic into two stories, and going for a trilogy 👀 So if you see this story suddenly appear in a series on Ao3, you'll know why.
> 
> Stay tuned for next week, when we (and Sherlock) finally hear John's backstory!


	10. The Bravery of the Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recounts his past, and Sherlock tries to come to terms with what he learns about his ex-captor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for this chapter include:** mentions of past suicidal ideation, the cruelties of war, IED explosions, torture, cruelty, corruption, weapons smuggling, the word 'heroin,' alcoholism (brief, like one sentence about Harry), violence, inflicted pain, a PTSD flashback, the beginnings of a panic attack. 
> 
> I think that's all of them. John's backstory is not a happy one.

John didn’t plan on apologizing to Phoenix for his off-hand comment. And he didn’t, not really. He'd barely extended a peace offering in the form of a packet of crips and a water bottle. Just like he’d done earlier, refusing to look at his motives when he offered to help Phoenix escape, John didn’t bother to analyze his actions. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he felt responsible for Phoenix, albeit in some weird, twisted way. John knew if he looked closely at his motivation, he might see something resembling Lima Syndrome more than an actual expression of empathy.

With his already tenuous self-perception of himself as monstrous, John wasn’t sure he could stomach knowing any kindness he showed resulted from a psychologically-enforced sympathy. Some part of him wanted to believe he was still capable of goodness. And if he wasn’t, then he’d like to think he might want to try and _be_ good. 

The truth of it was his guilt refused to abate. John could fret and stew over it, but when push came to shove, he’d brought Phoenix into their current situation. He had some measure of responsibility and owed Phoenix what little of his time it might take to help him regain his footing. If his helping Phoenix get his passports so he could leave Morocco was the least John could do, then he supposed he should.

He would do well to remind himself that hurting a virtual stranger’s feelings was probably the least unforgivable thing he’d ever done. In the end, John bungled his gesture of goodwill, confusing Phoenix with the bag of crisps instead of apologizing.

Phoenix was right: John _had_ forced his backstory from him. And at gunpoint, no less. If he couldn’t even force out an ‘I’m sorry’ for verbally attacking a man when he was already on his back foot, the least John could do was level the playing field between them. Tit for tat — his own story in exchange for the one John forced from Phoenix at the end of a gun.

But John still struggled. He didn’t want to look back and dredge up the things he kept under lock and key. His past haunted every living moment of his life and clawed through his nightmares at night. Reliving what he’d gone through, even removed from the immediacy of the fear... it held as much allure as pulling teeth.

Every word dragged from his mouth, tasting bitter and acrid. Tasting of bile and stomach acid, burning in the back of his throat.

“It’s pretty straight forward,” John said, staring at his lap, “entering medical school once you’ve enlisted.” He slid his hands together, fitting fingers between knuckles and clenching until they went white. John felt a sick, hot-and-cold sensation of disquiet settling over him. He’d only just begun, and already his body was reacting to the memories rising in his mind.

Shaking his head and tapping the back of a hand, he took a breath and forged on. “The military pays for your education, you do your placements, and once you’ve been awarded your MBBS, you work in the military hospitals until they need you.”

Eyes unfocused, John lifted his head and stared past Phoenix’s face, out the window. He watched the shadowed scenery pass them by. For a second, the desert outside the bus changed, burning bright and red like Afghanistan. John swallowed and blinked hard. He forced the imagery away until Phoenix’s face, solemn and intent with his eyes fixed on John’s, sharpened into focus.

“They sent me to Pirbright for basic training. Fourteen weeks. It was gruelling.” John’s mouth pulled to the side in a grim smile, the expression entirely without humour. “Or, so I thought at the time.” Shaking his head with a harsh, rueful chuckle, he closed his eyes. “I had no idea what gruelling meant.” Then, quieter, “No bloody idea until I was shipped out.”

His silence was longer this time. When John refocused, Phoenix was still attentive, hanging on his every word. His unwavering attention was unexpected, and John took a moment to organize his thoughts before continuing.

“I saw...” He snorted, rubbing a hand over his jaw, a scrape of palm over stubble. “It’s a cliche, so I won’t say it. But the things I saw. God. You can’t even imagine. I know everyone says that, but that’s because it’s true.” Eyes unfocused, John heard the sounds of those living nightmares in his head. Except he knew it was the echo of memories: helicopters and machine guns, people crying out and the hot, metallic tang of blood in the air.

John shook his head, refusing to let the images pull him under. Phoenix’s eyes tracked the motion, his brow furrowing.

“You really can’t imagine something as horrific as seeing someone you know blown to pieces by an IED. Someone you sat with the night before, who you shared a drink with. Someone who showed you a picture of their kids, who you shared… fucking beans and toast with. You _think_ you can imagine it, but you can’t.” John’s voice turned desperate, earnest, and he met Phoenix’s mercurial gaze with desperation. “Believe me when I say that it’s not even the stuff of nightmares because nightmares are better than… than seeing _that_. At least nightmares aren’t real.” 

“Was that what changed you?” Phoenix’s voice was soft, his quiet words interrupting a reverie John hadn’t realized he’d sunk into.

Eyelids fluttering, John blew a puff of air from his cheeks and shook his head. “No,” he said in a soft, strained voice. “No, it wasn’t that. Well, not _just_ that.” He fell silent again, trying to pull the threads of his story together. He felt scattered, his mind shifting in multiple directions at once. There were so many memories, so many instances of genuine horror that made it hard to find his way. This was why he didn’t talk about what happened. Because then he’d have to sort through it all and try to make sense of it. How did you make sense of horror? John had no idea. He’d never known how. He _still_ didn’t know how and wasn’t sure he ever would.

His breath came a little faster, and he gripped his thighs with trembling fingers. Sitting stiff and still, Phoenix was an immovable force at his side. Something about the way he sat there, unmoving and solid as a pillar, grounded John. He was a focal point in the miasmic whirlwind of John’s thoughts, his cascading memory.

Blind, John turned to him and found balance. Phoenix was spotted land in the distance, something to focus on as the horizon rose and fell with the rocking, wild waves of John’s thoughts. 

When his silence drew out, John simply sitting and staring at him with what could only be a haunted look, Phoenix leaned forward. He tilted his head to catch John’s eye, the movement making John blink.

“John?” His voice drowned out some of the relentless noise in John’s head. “What happened?”

Staring at him and trying to figure out if he meant then or now, John breathed out a ragged sigh. His mind cleared enough for him to regain his bearings, and he looked around the bus. Took in their surroundings, grounding himself firmly in the present. It was a struggle, his brain trying to suck him back down into the tumultuous fury of his nightmarish memories.

Barely keeping himself above the surface, John looked down at his hands, twisted into a tight grip in his lap.

He was safe. Well, as safe as one would be on a bus with a stranger, a probable madman, with unknown danger both behind and before them. The corner of John’s mouth twitched in a reluctant smile. Spotting the expression, Phoenix frowned but didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned back into his chair and stopped trying to recapture John’s eye.

Grateful for the space, John took a breath and continued. “There was a patrol,” he said slowly, the words dragged with reluctance from his raw throat. “I wasn’t supposed to be on it, but I tagged along at the last minute. Didn’t think much of it. I was bored, going stir-crazy. We hadn’t seen action in days. No wounded, no sign of insurgents in the area where we were patrolling. Most people would have been grateful, but I was a day from clawing out of my skin with the need for action.”

“You were bored,” Phoenix interrupted. His voice was strange, almost wondrous. When John chanced a glance in his direction, Phoenix was staring at him with what looked like reluctant admiration.

The corner of John’s mouth twitched up again. He remembered Phoenix telling his own story, recalled his words: _But I was bored. I was so deeply, incredibly bored._

“Yeah,” John said, allowing the faintest amusement into his voice, “I was. I was mad bored and looking for something to do.” He lifted his head, and they shared a glance. In it, John saw a level of understanding he didn’t anticipate.

In this, they were similar.

John dropped his eyes back to his lap and swallowed. He worked his hands tighter together and went on.

“I thought it was a routine patrol. You know, looking for signs of activity near the outpost. Maybe searching for anything we might have missed in earlier patrols and air sweeps.” John shook his head. He’d been so ignorant, missing what was right in front of him. “I don’t know what I thought, to be honest. It’s so long ago, and it hardly matters now. All I remember was the other men in the patrol — men I hadn’t run with before — they told me to wait outside this burnt-out building. They told me I was the look-out. Well, by the time I figured out that was just a ruse, it was too late.”

Phoenix frowned. He shifted in his seat, stretching out his long legs and drawing John’s attention. “What do you mean?” he asked, searching John’s face. “It wasn’t a routine patrol?”

“No,” John closed his eyes, “it wasn’t. They were… it was…” His voice trailed off, and his brow furrowed. “I was hit in the back of the head. I don’t know what it was that hit me, but it doesn’t matter. I was awake and then I wasn’t, and the next thing I knew, I woke up strapped to a chair.” Face tensing, his frown deepening, John squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “Turns out I was right. Something was off, and I realized it wasn’t a recon patrol or a sweep. It was a rendezvous. A pick-up and drop-off.”

Phoenix prompted, “For what?” with quiet encouragement.

His eyes still closed, John snorted. His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears when he replied, “Illegal gun smuggling. And drugs, of course.” A quiet scoff. “There were always drugs out there. _Always_. I swear that’s all that bloody war was ever about, the fucking heroin.”

Shaking off the bitterness that clung to him like a bad smell, John sighed and opened his eyes. He stretched out his cramping legs and picked up the thread of his tale.

“Anyway, it was bad news — some kind of back-door dealings and illegal trade. By the time I figured out that it was all a facade, it didn’t matter. The men I was with, they didn’t believe me when I said I’d just tagged along for something to do. They thought I knew something, that I was onto them. That maybe I was a plant.” John tipped his head to the side and rubbed a hand over his jaw. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over him. Whether it was a result of the past few days of adrenaline, the stress of telling his story, or a combination, he didn’t know. All he knew was he felt weary right down into his bones. “Fuck, I don’t know what they believed,” he finally muttered, waving a hand, “and as I said, it doesn’t really matter what I thought. What mattered was they thought I knew something, and that was it. I was fucked.”

Phoenix stared at him in confusion. He searched John’s eyes until his face paled, the blood leaching away from his sun-reddened skin. “Your scars,” he said in a slow, alarmed voice, piecing the story together far faster than John expected. “The ones on your back.”

Lips pursed, John nodded. He didn’t speak, didn’t think he needed to. He knew what the scars looked like, knew they were thick, knotted, dug deep into the skin and pitted in others. They spoke volumes more than he could say, more than he wanted to. A picture spoke a thousand words, and John’s scars spoke hundreds of thousands.

They never stopped telling the tale of what happened to him, even when John himself didn’t want to.

Still silent, he watched the horror dawn on Phoenix’s face. Watched it settle into the lines around his mouth and in his furrowed brow. When Phoenix spoke, his words were flat and final, a statement rather than a question.

“They tortured you.”

“Yeah,” John said simply. Because that’s what it was: simple. The men he’d left the outpost with thought he was onto them and no amount of protest, begging or pleading on his part had managed to change their minds. They’d scored his skin, burnt him, cut away pieces of flesh, drew blood until John was shaking and sweaty, and then they’d kept at it until they knew he wasn’t lying. For hours, they tore at him and ripped away whatever had made him the John of before. Broke him down and refused to build him back up, left him in pieces and refused to stop until they were sure he knew nothing. Until they knew he was telling the truth and had no idea what they were up to before joining the patrol.

But by then, it didn’t matter if John knew or not. By then, they’d broken Geneva conventions as well as international laws, and he was far more of a liability kept alive than dead.

“How did you escape?” Phoenix’s voice pulled him back into the present, dragging John away from the clinging grip of his memories.

Looking at him, John wondered if Phoenix knew what it was like to suffer as he had. If he knew how it felt to have the skin flayed away from your back until a blade scraped bone. To have the air pressed from your lungs by the sheer cruelty of the unrelenting pain. To look up into the face of a man you thought you could trust and see nothing but more pain looking back at you. Not many people did.

Looking at Phoenix, John didn’t think he knew or could understand. On the heels of those thoughts, John found he couldn’t begrudge the man’s lack of familiarity. He only wished he was so lucky himself.

“I didn’t,” he finally said, “escape, I mean.” He felt hollowed out and lacking, his voice sounding the same. Hollow was an apt word for what John became. Empty, just like his life since that night in the desert, where those men ripped away the human part of him and left him a desiccated shell of himself.

He thought maybe he’d been empty for a long time.

“But—”

John interrupted in a voice turned raw with remembered agony. “They shot me through the shoulder.” He lifted a hand, tapping a finger to his left clavicle. “Right here. Guess they figured they’d make it look like a chance shot instead of an execution. More believable than a point-blank headshot.” His hand flattened, palm rubbing into the gnarled scar tissue John could feel beneath his shirt. He sensed rather than saw Phoenix staring at the same spot, his eyes riveted on John’s shoulder.

Letting his hand drop to his lap and curling his hand into a fist, John swallowed. “They dragged me out into the desert and left me there. Left me there to bleed out. And, if that didn’t finish me off, for the sun to bake me dry.”

Phoenix stared at him. When John chanced a glance his way, his eyes were dark and trouble beneath his furrowed brow. “How did you survive?”

John shrugged and offered a flat, broken smile. “Someone found me — a small patrol. They were in the area by chance, a last-minute patrol route. Apparently, they had a bunch of new recruits and nothing to keep them busy.” He laughed, the sound cracking at the edges.

Looking around, John saw another passenger glance their way at the sound, and he lowered his voice.

“I lived because some CROWs got too uppity and annoying for their sergeant, and he sent them into the desert for the hell of it. If not for them, I’d have died there. Died miles and miles away from home with a bullet in my shoulder and sand in my mouth.” His laugh was quieter this time but no less harsh. “Shot by men who wore the same uniform as me, no less. Sometimes, I still can’t believe it.” The truth of it — that he’d nearly died there — always struck John as a cosmic joke. He’d survived physically, but something inside him didn’t. It was still out there, that part of him, laying in the sand and bleeding out under the Afghan sun.

John found a strange relief in telling his story. Outside of those involved and a few higher-ups in the army, no one knew what happened to John that long, haunting night. Telling Phoenix lifted a weight off his chest. Not all the way, but enough that John realized he could breathe a little deeper, that moving was a little easier.

“What happened when you told your COs about the gun smuggling?”

John came back to himself and was startled to find Phoenix’s face even closer than before. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning over the armrest as if he could pull the answers from John through sheer proximity alone. Despite a flicker of discomfort, John was amused by the approach. But he still leaned back a bit to gain some distance.

“Well, it took me a while to recover. The injury nearly killed me, and when it didn’t succeed, an infection set in.”

John shivered. He could remember, with vivid recall, the feeling of sickness in his body. He could remember how it sunk deep into his bones and worked its way through his veins. He’d burned up and frozen, came apart at the seams and begged for death as the infection ravaged him to nothing more than a shadow. After the torture and the bullet in his shoulder, after being found at the eleventh hour, John had wished for death. Had prayed for his rescue to have been a dream, just so he could close his eyes and fade away from the living, waking agony of his own body.

“That infection nearly did me in where the bullet failed.” One of John’s hands lifted and drifted back to his left shoulder in an unconscious gesture. Eyes unfocused, he wet his dry lips and frowned at the window past Phoenix’s face. “When I finally recovered enough to remain conscious for longer than an hour, the head of my section came to see me.”

“Did you tell him what happened?” Phoenix asked, the question almost rude in its forcefulness.

Looking at him, John saw a burning curiousity in his eyes. It surged and flickered like a fire, making the silvery-green colour appear molten. He smiled despite the gravity of his tale, finding Phoenix’s intensity strangely flattering. After spending years on his own, John had grown unfamiliar with proper conversation. In a way, it was nice to be heard and be listened to. In other ways, it was terrifying. Having Phoenix look at him the way he was felt like being known, and John recoiled from the sensation.

Back stiffening, he met Phoenix’s stare with a hard gaze. “I did,” he replied, the smile fading into a rueful grimace. “And he told me it was none of my business. He told me to keep it to myself. When I kept trying to explain, he spoke over me. He told me that the army was grateful for my service, but with my injuries, it was unlikely I’d be able to continue in my role as a trauma surgeon. When I argued, he told me I was going to be sent home. An honourable discharge.”

John’s bitter words turned the designation into an insult, his lip curling back.

Phoenix blinked. His confusion was evident and, before he could question John’s statements, John said, “They sent me to London. Just like that. The moment I was well enough to stand up and piss on my own, they shipped me away on a plane.” He looked away, breaking the contact as the memory grew too loud in his head to keep from showing in his eyes. “I was in pain, weak and useless, stuck in some pathetic little bedsit with no one. My sister was — she _is_ — an alcoholic. Our parents are dead, have been since I was twenty-two. Everyone I knew was either still out in the desert or hated me for leaving them for a war.”

John’s voice trailed off. He struggled with the words rising in his throat, feeling them burn at the back of his mouth. Hand gripping his left shoulder like a talisman, he gave voice to them at last. Admitted something he’d kept to himself in all the years following his discharge.

“By the end of the first month, it was all I could do not to swallow the end of my gun.” John felt the weapon against his back like a brand, and he held his shoulder harder. The pressure sent agony rippling through the damaged nerves, the thick scar tissue, right around the deadened spots where he hadn’t felt anything since the bullet punched into his skin and shattered bone. The pain made him clench his teeth together and grimace, but it grounded him. Helped quiet the cacophony in his head.

“But you didn’t.”

Phoenix’s voice reached out from the darkness creeping over the edges of John’s vision. He grabbed for it, fingers still buried in the fabric covering his shoulder. “But I didn’t,” he said in a whisper, in quiet agreement, “because someone found me before I could.”

From the corner of his eyes, John saw Phoenix tilt his head and frown. “Who?”

Staring ahead at the back of the seat in front of him, John licked his lips and said, “The Colonel.”

* * *

Sherlock was stunned. Whatever he’d expected, John’s story blew it right out of the water. He’d known it wouldn’t be a happy tale — how could it be? After seeing the scars on John’s back, that brief, fleeting glimpse when John showed him how to hide the gun, Sherlock had known there was brutality in the man’s past. But, with all that had happened since, Sherlock had almost forgotten about them. He’d been focused on escaping, on staying alive and figuring out how they were meant to work together, and the scars slipped his mind. If he’d had the time to analyze them, to think it over, he might have deduced it. Might have known what John’s story concerned.

But he hadn’t, and it caught him unprepared. Now, Sherlock’s head spun.

Everything John had gone through, what he’d survived, was monumental. Things that broke people daily, and that Sherlock thought might break him with ease, slipped from John’s lips like he was reciting some prepared and falsified account of someone else’s life. If not for the scars themselves, and the small, brief slips in John’s facade, Sherlock might have thought he was lying.

But the evidence was staggering. John was telling the truth. Sherlock knew that as surely as he knew he would never survive such a thing himself. Even as he thought it, Sherlock realized he had no way of knowing if that was true. Maybe he could if he had to.

He hoped he never had to.

Looking at John now, watching him dig his fingers against his shoulder, Sherlock tried to coincide the hard, deadly man in front of him with the broken man John described. A man betrayed by his own country. Made to fend for himself with nothing left to show for his sacrifice but horrible scars and a head full of nightmares.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath in through his nose, hoping to clear his head, and clung to the last thing John said. “Who is the Colonel?”

He hoped his voice sounded steadier than he felt. No matter how he tried, Sherlock couldn’t get the image of John tied to a chair, somewhere in the desert and writhing with pain, out of his mind’s eye. It stuck to him like a burr, trapped in his brain with the same clarity with which he remembered everything. He wasn’t sure he could delete the image, conjured as it was by his own vivid imagination and John’s flat, hard words.

“He was a soldier,” John said, his voice flat. “Obviously, since he’s called the Colonel.” Something in his tone, a lurking hollow edge beneath the fake bite, made Sherlock open his eyes and look closer.

John sat with his body angled away from Sherlock. His posture was stiff, almost rigid. He stared at the seat in front of him with his hands knotted together in his lap once again, and a muscle twitched rhythmically in his jaw. Sherlock fixated on it, desperately seeking something to ground him in the moment as shock rolled through him in waves.

“Was?” he echoed. His own voice sounded strange in his ears.

“Yeah.” One of John’s thumbs moved, sweeping over the back of his opposite hand in a rhythmic tic. “I don’t know all the details, but he was discharged and sent back to England before me. Maybe ten months before. We never had any work together, so I didn’t know him. After a couple months back in London, someone approached me on the street. A man. He said he knew who I was, what had happened to me.” John frowned, and he loosened his hands, lifting one to rub absently at the skin over his eyebrow. “To say I was shocked was an understatement. I thought this was it, those men who… who hurt me… I thought this was them coming to finish the job. Tying up a loose end.”

His voice trailed off. Shifting sideways in his seat, Sherlock set his shoulders against the window and waited. He watched John’s face, tracking the subtle shifts of emotion over his expressive features. His outward presentation was confounding, both controlled and simultaneously easy to read. John wore his feelings on his sleeve when he showed them, but Sherlock found that making sense of them was an entirely different matter.

Gradually, that muscle still ticking in his jaw, John resumed his story. “It took some convincing for me to believe that wasn’t the case. The man gave me a card and told me to call the number when I grew tired of pretending I could make it as a civilian.” The corner of John’s mouth tugged to the side, the smile sharp as a blade. “I guess he knew that I’d passed that point long ago and was barely hanging on.” His eyes flickered to Sherlock, and he hesitated before adding, “If that man hadn’t approached me, I doubt I’d be here.”

“You mean, he set you on this path?”

There was that smile again, growing sharper and more jagged by the second. “No.” Their eyes locked, and John’s voice was so soft that Sherlock had to lean closer to catch his words. “I mean, if he hadn’t approached me, I’d be dead.”

“So this man, the Colonel… he saved you?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what John was saying.

“Saved me from swallowing a bullet,” John stated bluntly. His mouth flattened, settling into an expression that wasn’t so cruel. “So, I guess, in a way, yeah. I guess he saved me.” His eyes dropped, severing the connection between them. Sherlock blinked and slowly leaned back.“I called the number, and he introduced himself as the Colonel. Said we knew each other. I didn’t know until later that he was the soldier who was discharged before me. All he said was he knew me, and there was work for men like me.”

Sherlock tilted his head, eyes narrowing as John’s words inspired something dark and uneasy deep in his stomach. “Men like you?”

Gaze unfocused on their feet, John nodded. “Yeah, men like me. Men who brought the war back with them. Soldiers who couldn’t stop being soldiers, even when they were no longer wanted by the people who made them.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Sherlock watched, eyes fixed on the movement. The uneasy feeling turned into sick dread.

“That was what he said. He said I was one of those men,” John frowned, teeth catching on his bottom lip, “and that I didn’t have to stop being what they made me.”

With his stomach twisting, Sherlock asked, “Which is?”

John’s gaze shifted, and he looked at Sherlock from the corner of his eyes. It was dark outside, the overhead lights turned off, casting John’s face into shadow. Sherlock could just make out his reluctant expression and stiff neck.

The words dragged out John’s mouth, through tight lips.

“A killer.”

Sherlock stiffened, resisting the urge to react. Clenching his teeth, he breathed out and said, “You were an army-doctor.”

His struggle didn’t go unnoticed, and John winced. Mouth tugging down at the edges, he clenched his hands together and corrected, “And a soldier. Sure, I helped people. But I killed, too. I killed under order and, I thought, for the right reasons.” Shaking his head, John closed his eyes and dug his nails into the backs of his knuckles. “I’m sure many of us thought we were doing the right thing out there. No one wants to admit that most war is pointless and self-serving. That it’s more about the money and the politics and less about doing the right thing. That most of us are just gun fodder.” John’s fingers stretched in a helpless gesture.

Sherlock stared at his fingers. “But it’s not about doing the right thing.”

John shook his head. “No, it’s not. And I guess I knew that, somewhere inside myself. You can’t take a gun and run through a town where people are dying simply because you’re there and always think you’re the good guy. But I wanted to be a doctor, and I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I didn’t have any other choice. Then… then there was that night with the gun smuggling, and the torture, and…” John’s eyes squeezed shut, his left hand beginning to shake and taking the other with it. “And they discharged me just to keep me quiet, and I realized it was all a _fucking lie.”_

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place at John’s words. Tilting his head back against the window and closing his eyes, Sherlock let the rumble of the bus’s engine rattle his teeth. “I think I understand."

A soft noise from John, harsh and scoffing, made Sherlock open his eyes. He saw John looking at him with a stony expression.

“I don’t think you do,” John said in a tight voice, his lips flattening into a pale line.

Sherlock sighed. Sitting up, he leaned forward and looked John in the eye. “When you caught me, and I realized you’d been an army-doctor, at first I was confused.” He paused, waiting for an interruption. At John’s silent regard, his dark eyes burning into Sherlock’s, he went on, “I wondered what turned someone who clearly lived with integrity into a man like you.”

“A man like me?” John repeated slowly, a deadly glint in his eye.

Sherlock frowned, trying to explain his thought process. “A mercenary. A hired killer. A man without loyalty to anyone but himself.”

John opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock held up a hand to silence him. He subsided, and, holding his gaze, Sherlock lowered his hand.

“Don’t bother trying to tell me you aren’t a good man. Maybe you haven’t been much of one lately, but it’s still there — that goodness. No, hear me out,” he said when John began to shift, looking like he might interrupt. Sherlock rushed on, the words tumbling out so John had to listen. “You had the chance to leave me behind in Nador, and despite all you’ve said to the contrary, you’ve repeatedly gone out of your way to keep me safe.”

“I drove you to your death—”

Sherlock spoke over him, his voice an earnest murmur. “You did, yes. Because that was your job. But you were kind, in your own way. You could have simply knocked me out right from the start, but you gave me an option: comply or face the consequences. You gave me some form of power, albeit reduced. And I didn’t make it easy on you, yet you still showed care. You gave me water, you avoided using more force than was necessary, and, when push came to shove, you trusted me.”

“I didn’t trust you for long,” John pointed out. The statement dredging up the memory of him taking the gun from Sherlock and tying him to the bed in their hotel room. Pushing those thoughts aside with a wince, Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“And yet, here we are.” Without giving himself a chance to overthink it, Sherlock reached out. John tensed, but Sherlock caught his wrist, gripping it firmly. Connected physically, he looked John in the eye. “I said you had trust issues, and now I know why. And I understand.”

They stared at one another. John’s eyes were wide, unblinking, and his arm shook with minute tremors beneath Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock could feel the hammering beat of John’s pulse beneath the skin under his fingertips.

It was a long, silent moment before John spoke again. When he did, Sherlock felt his heart rate quicken. “You can’t understand,” he said in a raw voice. “You don’t _know_ me.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, tilting his head in a curt nod, “I don’t. But…” he tightened his hold briefly before releasing John’s wrist. It hovered between them, John’s eyes on his own arm as Sherlock added, “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

An odd expression slipped over John’s face. He stared at Sherlock before his gaze darted away. Lifting a hand to his mouth, he pressed his teeth against his thumb and closed his eyes. He sat perfectly still, a statue, teeth leaving slow indents in his skin.

Sherlock frowned, watching him with a growing sense of concern. He opened his mouth, managed to ask, “Are you—” before John spoke over him.

“How much longer?”

Confused by the sudden change in topic, Sherlock blinked. “Until?”

His eyes still closed, thumb pressed against his bottom lip now, John clarified, “Until we arrive in Tétouan.”

Sherlock considered the question, still reeling from the 180-degree flip. Glancing over his shoulder at the dark scenery passing by the window, he calculated how long they’d been on the road against the remaining distance. “Maybe eight hours, give or take.”

John nodded and leaned back into the seat. He sank as he did it, shoulders dropping, the tension easing away and leaving him rag doll-limp. His hand dropped from his face and settled into his lap. With his eyes closed, the shadows beneath were stark against his tanned skin.

Sherlock thought he looked exhausted. Like he was running on empty.

“I’m going to try and get some sleep,” John said. Without waiting for a response, he turned onto his side and faced the aisle. It was clear that he was finished with the conversation, shutting Sherlock out with the same force of a door slammed in his face.

Dumfounded, Sherlock stared at his back and the tight curve of his shoulders. John sat hunched into himself like he was trying to make himself smaller. It seemed an impossible feat — despite his shorter stature, John was larger than life. Knowing his story only made that more obvious, now that Sherlock knew what he’d endured, what John carried with him.

Looking at him, Sherlock realized he should say something. Wasn’t that what people did when someone opened up the way John had? They said things, kind things, things that might not make it better, but showed that they appreciated being part of the knowing. Sherlock had said he understood, but John said he didn’t, and maybe that was true.

Sherlock was part of the knowing now, but he didn’t know what to say.

Eyes lingering on John’s back, imagining the scars beneath his shirt, Sherlock wondered if the right words even existed. And, if they did, if he was capable of utilizing them. Words, and bestowing comfort through them, had never been Sherlock’s forte. Hearing John’s story hadn’t changed that.

After his mind chased itself in a circle, refusing to present anything useful, Sherlock admitted defeat. It was unlikely that John would even welcome his words if he’d had any to say. Head leaned back against the window, Sherlock closed his eyes. He was all too aware of John in the next seat, his energy like some dark, palpable force just beyond the dark of his eyelids.

Gradually, the rumble of the bus lulled Sherlock into a daze, then a stupor. He let himself drift, and John’s words filled his head. The visual memory of his face as he’d told his story was imprinted on the back of Sherlock’s closed eyes, and it followed Sherlock down into a restless sleep.

* * *

John was exhausted. Hollowed out, hung out to dry, scraped raw. Telling his story both freed and chained him, dragging him back into his memories. The second he stopped chasing them, they fell upon him. A rabid pack of wolves, they tore into him with tooth and nail, leaving John with nowhere to run.

How did you hide when your mind was the problem? You didn’t. You pushed it back and hoped it wouldn’t rise up when you didn’t expect it.

John’s demons were rising far higher than he could hope to bear, and he thought he might drown.

Even worse, Phoenix had tried to dissuade John of every self-held doubt he’d internalized since Afghanistan. Everything he’d told himself, that he was broken, empty, a bad man, everything John believed in trying to make sense of who he’d become… Phoenix’s words pulled the rug out from beneath them.

Now, with his head tilted into the seat, facing the aisle, John clenched his eyes shut and tried to silence the voice in his head. The one that told him maybe he wasn’t entirely irredeemable. The one whispering that redemption was a possibility if John reached for it. The one that said helping Phoenix proved he wasn’t beyond saving and, if he could just keep on this path, maybe he’d stop treading water and start swimming.

Maybe he didn’t have to drown.

But John was exhausted. He was tired, drained, and he didn’t want to swim. He didn’t want to tread water anymore — he’d been treading water for years, and it never got any easier. It only grew harder, his body heavier, and swimming sounded impossible. It would require far more strength than he had left to try.

What was worse, John thought that, with Phoenix at his side, he might succeed in changing who he was. But then what? What happened when he regained his humanity? When John looked at all he’d done, all the violence and darkness he’d pushed down and hidden within him, the blood he’d left in his wake… what then?

John thought it might consume him. And if he tried to lean on Phoenix, he’d drag him down and consume him as well. John couldn’t reach for that, not when everything he touched blackened and curled at the edges like paper held to a flame.

He knew that there was no reason for them to stay together beyond helping Phoenix reach his belongings. There would be nothing to tie them together past that point, and they would both be better off later if John realized that now. Phoenix wasn’t some kind of light in the dark. He wasn’t a pillar of hope or a second chance. He was a man John had condemned to death, and they were just both unlucky enough to end up stuck together by a common enemy.

No. Phoenix wasn’t the key to John’s redemption because John was too far gone for that. He was a means to an end, just as John was himself, and soon they’d part, and this chapter of John’s life would be finished.

Rolling his shoulders against the seat and trying to get comfortable, John’s teeth sank hard against his bottom lip.

He didn’t regret telling Phoenix his story. In some twisted way, it had been good to get it out there, to get it out of his head. To drive the toxic memories out and into the air like poison drawn from a wound. But already, John could feel the creeping weight of his past returning, sinking deeper than before, only made more potent by bringing it to the surface. It was something he carried with him always, would keep with him until his dying day, and it was a weight he was accustomed to.

Though that didn’t make it any easier to bear.

Even caught up in his thoughts, the drag of his mind as it fell back beneath the pressure of his memories, John could feel the force of Phoenix’s stare on his back. It felt like a burning sensation, the intensity of his gaze, making it impossible for him to rest. It disappeared for a while, and he heard Phoenix’s breathing soften and gentle and assumed he’d fallen asleep.

He managed half an hour of peace before the sensation returned, somehow ten-fold.

His back stiffening, John hunched his shoulders and growled, “Stop staring at me.” He heard a sharp intake of breath and bit back a triumphant smile at having caught Phoenix unawares. John thought he caught a muttered apology and stiffened. “Just… go to sleep or something,” he snapped, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t be overheard by the other passengers. “I don’t care what you do, just… stop fucking staring at me.”

He felt that gaze linger and shot a glare over his shoulder. His eyes found and met Phoenix’s. They stared at one another, Phoenix’s face hardened, his gaze stubborn before he finally looked away, and John faced the aisle again.

 _Only a little longer of this,_ he thought. A bit more time spent trying to play well with others, and he’d be alone again. He was made to be alone, better off alone, and Phoenix was no exception to John’s self-enforced rule. Tétouan couldn’t come fast enough, and John took comfort in the fact that, if all went well, he might be free of his reluctant companion come tomorrow evening.

His mind settled, though nowhere near peaceful, John folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes again.


	11. Concussive Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John arrive in Tétouan. John's uneasy instincts are proven right.

Their bus pulled into Tétouan as the sunrise faded into the early morning. They disembarked among the other passengers, Sherlock first with John on his heels. After the long ride, Sherlock felt stiff all over, his long legs cramped from the close quarters. Worse still was the scattered quality of his thinking, his mind still working to process John’s story and his abrupt withdrawal afterward.

Sherlock searched the sleepy faces of their fellow travellers. His tired brain struggled to divine their life stories from the wrinkles in their clothes, the way they held themselves and engaged with one another. He was spent, having passed the last eight hours of the bus ride somewhere between asleep and awake. Whenever he’d tried to sleep, his thoughts pulled him back to wakefulness. It was unrelenting, the way he’d stewed in ruminative circles over John’s story.

He let John lead the way with a stiff spine and a jerky gait. As he followed John into town, through the hot, dusty air, Sherlock stared at the back of his head and wondered if John was any better off. Had he felt the same sense of shocked fatigue after hearing Sherlock’s story?

 _Probably not,_ Sherlock mused. After all, his story didn’t involve being tortured, shot and left for dead by people he thought he could trust.

Breathing in the smell of dust and petrol, Sherlock tried to imagine experiencing what John went through. He could understand not having anyone to watch your back. Sherlock had always felt alone, had always been, more or less, alone. But John… John thought he had people to rely on, only to find that he had no one. He’d fallen in his own way, just as Sherlock had. But instead of catching him when he did, those same people were the ones to push John over the edge.

Sherlock couldn’t help but think that John still seemed to be falling.

It must be terrifying, knowing you had no safety net. No one to rely on when things went bad. How John carried on like that, Sherlock had no idea. He was caught by John’s story, by its harsh, cruel reality. What Sherlock had gone through, first with Moriarty, then with John himself, paled in comparison. Sherlock had only lost a life, and one he hoped to regain, at that.

John had lost _himself_. Or part of himself — he appeared firm in who he was. But something was missing, and Sherlock saw that now. The frustration he’d felt when he found he couldn’t read John, some of it made sense. He couldn’t know John because something of John was gone. Sherlock thought that must be it, the answer to his inability to make sense of John. The part of John that let him trust others, that once believed in something bigger than himself, had been shot dead in Afghanistan.

Whatever remained had likely died in the pathetic bedsit John ended up in when he returned to London.

It was appalling. Sherlock was appalled by the sheer depth of failure John had been a victim of. He’d been failed by an army that treated him like fodder, by men he thought were on his side, by his country, and, finally, by his own body. He’d been left with nothing until the Colonel gave him purpose by corrupting John further, only to ultimately betray him in the end.

Everything in John’s life had failed him, right down to his own family, and that was something Sherlock couldn’t brush off. He couldn’t move past the simple repetition of neglect that had shaped John into who he was. Even worse, Sherlock had no idea what to do about it — if there _was_ something to be done. If there was, Sherlock doubted he was the one meant to do it.

When all was said and done, John was still the man who had condemned Sherlock to death. Assaulted and dragged him halfway across Morocco on the orders of someone he barely knew. And, while it sounded like that man had kept John from swallowing a bullet from his own handgun, Sherlock thought he should still be angry at John.

But he wasn’t.

Despite everything John had put him through, all the aggression, the threats and the lying, Sherlock _wasn’t_ angry. He was annoyed at having been bested, but that was his own fault. He’d underestimated John, let his guard down. Had done so over and over, and now here he was, walking into Tétouan on John’s heels.

Sherlock never would have made it here without him. Granted, he wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place without John. But Sherlock would likely have been dead well before now. He doubted anyone else sent to kill him would have bothered to keep him alive. Sherlock knew he owed John his life. It wasn’t a comforting realization, but he knew that, in an abstract sense, John owed Sherlock his as well.

The awareness was both comforting and terrible. Sherlock didn’t like the idea of owing anything to anyone when he had nothing to give. Yet here was John, who’d had an integral part of him stripped away years ago, willing to help him.

It was baffling.

The early morning hour softened the city. The crowds that would gather later in the day were absent, and Sherlock took a moment to enjoy the quiet peace of the fading sunrise. Quickening his pace, he drew even with John. “I assume we’re not just going to walk up to my rented room, bold as brass?”

John glanced at him before his gaze skidded away without settling on Sherlock’s face. “No,” he said slowly, fidgeting with the strap of his bag. “No, we’re not.” The lack of eye contact made him appear skittish, and Sherlock frowned.

“What is it?” He cocked his head to the side, curious in spite of himself as John’s jaw tensed.

John’s reply was reluctant, dragged out from tight lips, “I might have an idea.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound like you want to share this idea.”

John grumbled low in his throat. “I know somewhere we can go. Somewhere that provides a vantage point of your room.” He hesitated and looked Sherlock over with a critical eye. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

Lips pressing together in thought, Sherlock stopped walking. He reached out and snagged John’s arm, pulling him to a halt. Just as he had on the bus, John stiffened. “What does that mean, ‘I won’t like it?’”

His hands flexing into fists before releasing, John studied him for a long, silent moment. Finally, he tilted his head in a curt nod. Eyes ticking over Sherlock’s face, he wrenched his arm out of Sherlock’s hold and clenched his jaw until a muscle jumped in his neck.

Sherlock stared at it, waiting for John to explain.

“When I was preparing to… well, you know,” John waved at Sherlock, somehow indicating Sherlock’s capture in that one simple gesture, “I did some surveillance.”

“Surveillance,” Sherlock repeated slowly. His eyes narrowed as John’s darted away. “You mean you were watching me.”

“Of course I was watching you,” John snapped, suddenly on the offensive. “It’s not like I could just stroll up off the street and say, hello, my bosses would like to kill you. How about you come along with me now, and we’ll be off.” He scowled.

Sherlock struggled with the inappropriate urge to grin. “Pretty sure that’s what you did.” He paused in consideration before amending, “Though, with a little less courtesy and a little more violence, if I remember correctly.”

John made a quiet, frustrated sound. “I was following orders,” he growled out through his teeth. “And I’m not now. We’ve been over this.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Indeed, we have. And it’s old news. What matters is where we go now.”

His reply earned him a surprised look. John stared for a moment, tongue sweeping out over his bottom lip. “How… forgiving of you,” he said slowly, studying Sherlock’s face with a sharp gaze.

Eyes rolling upward, Sherlock snapped, “I meant in terms of our next steps. The vantage point?”

Colour rushed into John’s face, and he was immediately on guard. “There’s an accessible roof across from your room,” he said, hands flexing at his sides again. He refused to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “If we go there first, we can see if your room is being watched. Might not know for sure, but it’s better than walking in without a plan.”

Sherlock wet his dry lips and asked, “And you think they’ll be watching?”

John scowled, finally meeting Sherlock’s gaze again. His dark eyes hardened. “I _know_ they’ll be watching.”

“How can you be sure?”

Several seconds ticked out, silent and taut. John’s voice, when he replied, sounded hollow.

“Because it’s what I would do.”

* * *

Crouched on the roof across from Phoenix’s room, John was struck by a sense of deja vu. How could he not be, when he was in the exact spot he’d been in shortly before setting into motion the events which had led them right back here? Except, this time, there was no one asleep in the room viewed through his binoculars — or so John hoped — and the man he’d stalked then was now hunkered next to him. Hunkered and picking at his _sfenj_ with petulant fingers, clearly bored by the lack of excitement.

“How much longer must we sit here?” Phoenix popped the last of the street food into his mouth. He pulled a face at his buttery fingers and wiped them on his trousers with a grimace.

John lowered his binoculars and glanced at him. “It depends.”

Eyes narrowed, Phoenix’s mouth tensed into a sour moue. “Could you be more specific? Depends on _what?”_

Arm resting on his bent knee, the binoculars dangling from one hand, John shrugged. “On whether or not you think this is really a good plan.”

Phoenix’s expression darkened. “It’s the _only_ plan,” he snapped, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “I need my passports. Otherwise, I’m stuck in Morocco.”

“Then shut up and let me focus.” John’s steady voice made him sound unperturbed while, beneath the facade, he was a tangle of nerves.

He didn’t want to be here. Without a shred of doubt, John knew they were walking into an ambush. After giving their pursers the slip in Nador, he knew Phoenix’s last established address would be their next best chance at apprehending him and John. If John was in their shoes, sent to track down the man next to him after losing him the first time, this was where John would go. It made sense for them to return here, and that knowledge made him uneasy.

John felt jittery. No amount of preparation would prevent the inevitable confrontation. He had his gun, his wits, skills, and knowledge, but that didn’t guarantee they’d come out of this alive. His gut told him this was a fool’s errand, that they should turn and leave before they walked into certain danger. He hadn’t made it this far, survived so much, just to take unnecessary risks or ignore his instincts. And, right now, John’s instincts were screaming at him to leave. They told him this was insane, walking into that building. Every inch of him was telling John to turn and run. To drop Phoenix and abandon him.

To leave him to the wolves and save his own skin.

It took far more self-control than John could spare to keep him from heeding his instincts. But he did, ignoring the urge to run. He’d been running all his life, and maybe it was time to stop.

 _Or,_ John thought as he lifted the binoculars and stared across at the building opposite them, _maybe the time to run was coming._

If they could pull this off, if John helped Phoenix get his passports and disappear, John could go his own way. After this, there’d be no reason for them to stay together. Phoenix would no longer be his responsibility, John’s debt paid in full by granting the man his freedom, leaving him alive and equipped for escape.

The thought eased some of the tension in his body, and John felt the fog clear from his mind. The guilt he’d been carrying, which had weighed him down, lightened. In the end, the decision was an easy one. Help Phoenix now, repay his debt for dragging him across the desert to be killed, and disappear later. John could do it. He’d done it before. And even if Phoenix wanted to follow him, something John doubted, he would fail.

Comforted by the decision, John tuned back into the moment and jolted as he realized Phoenix was speaking.

“—Mycroft’s fault. If he’d kept a better eye on the situation, I might still be in London.”

“What?” John asked, confused by the snippet.

Phoenix glanced at him with raised brows. He searched John’s face before his lips tugged down at the corners, no doubt realizing John had been lost in his own thoughts. “Nevermind,” he muttered, glaring across the street.

“Planned to do just that,” John quipped, hiding his lack of focus behind sarcasm and disinterest. He caught Phoenix’s frown and curious look from the edge of his vision before turning his gaze back to the binoculars.

He didn’t see anything outwardly suspicious, not on the street or in the room itself. The lack of movement in the area was of little comfort. Someone could be waiting inside, out of sight until he and Phoenix were trapped in the room with no way out. Someone might be patrolling the hallways or hiding in the room next door, waiting for them to appear. Maybe they were watching them right now, and their status as ‘off the radar’ was no more real than Phoenix’s fake name.

The thought made John’s skin crawl, and he lowered the binoculars to scan their surroundings. He didn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean they were alone. John was good at the game of cat and mouse, but the men after them might be better. They couldn’t afford to underestimate their pursuers.

But there was little John could do about his concerns. They were here now, they had a plan, and Phoenix was right. It was _all_ they had. John had no choice but to move forward with the plan and hope for the best. Whatever the outcome, he hoped it involved both of them leaving Tétouan alive.

“Alright,” he said, lowering the binoculars again, “I think it’s time.”

“Do you have my keys?” Phoenix turned to John and squinted against the sun behind him. “I had them when you picked me up, and, obviously, I no longer do.”

“Right.” John turned to his bag and dug inside. He’d taken several objects off of Phoenix when he picked him up, searching his pockets after knocking him out cold. He pushed aside a small laptop, and a set of lock picks, feeling around until his fingers brushed the hard, jagged metal edge of a key. Hooking his index finger through the keyring, John tossed them to Phoenix.

He caught them easily in his bandaged hand and winced. As John zipped up his bag, Phoenix shifted the keys to his other hand and tucked them into his pocket before nodding across the street. “Did you see anyone?”

Slipping the binoculars into his bag and checking for the reassuring shape of the gun against his back, John shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything.” Fixing Phoenix with a grim look, he said, “You still got that gun?” Phoenix reached behind himself and patted his lower back in silent answer, and John nodded. “Good. Be ready to use it.”

He received a sideways glance in response. “You really think they’ll be waiting?”

“If they’re not, they’ll catch on pretty quick.” John slipped his own gun free from his waistband, checked the clip, and slipped it back into place.

Phoenix nodded. “Right.” His expression hardened, and he looked toward the building before he followed John to the stairs.

* * *

Descending the stairs after John in silence, Sherlock was acutely aware of the gun at his back. John drawing his attention to it reminded Sherlock that he might have to actually use it, and he found his mind turning to the handgun in his rented room. With any luck, he’d have both it and his other belongings within the hour.

With the reminder came the complex emotions associated with the gun. Mycroft gave it to Sherlock for his mission, and it had kept him company through the slow, agonizing dismantling of Moriarty’s network. Not every kill he made, but a large number of them were through the use of that gun. Despite the advantage the weapon provided, Sherlock hated it. He’d taken lives with vengeance and righteous violence but had grown to hate the firearm. He saw it as a metaphor for himself, an unappreciated reminder of how Moriarty had taken another piece of Sherlock from himself. How he was dehumanized through his fate, the fall from grace that he’d suffered.

Hearing John’s voice in his head, hearing him say he’d once thought he killed for the right reasons, Sherlock wondered at the death he’d dealt himself. It had changed him, he was sure of it, but would it continue to do so? John had changed from a man who killed only for what appeared to be the right reason, turned into someone who killed for the highest bidder. Would Sherlock become something of the same?

He didn’t know the answer. But there was a stark difference between them: Sherlock had only been betrayed by an enemy. Never mind that he’d thought Moriarty was like him, that they were opposite sides of the same coin. In the end, they’d been entirely different beasts, and Sherlock now killed to bring down a monster. To regain his life.

Did that put him in the right? He didn’t have an answer to that either. Sherlock might never know the answer, but he knew if he wanted his life back, he couldn’t stop now.

People liked to think of Sherlock as broken, liked to say he was a psychopath. He’d even taken to calling himself a high-functioning sociopath if only to take the label placed upon him and reduce it to something a little more palatable. But he wasn’t. He felt things, felt them strongly, and every face of every person he’d killed lived on in his Mind Palace whether he wanted them to or not.

In the end, Sherlock’s facade had been his undoing. Moriarty had used how people saw Sherlock to destroy him, leaving him to pick up the pieces of a trap he’d walked right into. Now, Sherlock had nothing but his tarnished name and a gun to remind him of what he had once been and never could be again. Name cleared or not, he would never be the Sherlock Holmes of before. Sherlock would live with the knowledge that Moriarty made him into a man who took the lives of others. No matter how deserved every death at his hands might have been, Sherlock knew he would never lose those memories.

Ahead of him, back on the ground, Sherlock watched John check the street. His back was tense, his shoulders a rigid line of stress before he waved Sherlock forward. They crossed a road in plain sight, ducked into an alley and hugged a wall.

Listening to John’s quickened breathing beside him, Sherlock wondered how he lived with it. He’d not only taken lives in the name of Queen and Country but in cold-blood and for money. John didn’t even have the excuse of knowing if those he killed or condemned to death through capture were good people or bad, or some grey in-between. Sherlock wondered how a man like that slept at night. How he lived with himself.

Maybe he didn’t. Perhaps that was the truth of it, the reality Sherlock had to look forward to. Nightmares and guilt that never disappeared.

He wondered if it would always taste this bitter or if the burden lightened.

“Come on.”

John’s voice pulled him out of his head, drew his focus into the moment. He was on the move again, leading Sherlock down the alley toward the building. The city was still quiet, and they kept out of sight where they could. When they stepped out of the path, onto the main road, John held up a hand.

“Wait.”

Sherlock searched their surroundings, wondering what made John pause. “What is it?” He saw a stray dog, heard voices one street over as the markets opened. The few people passing by paid them little attention. It was early, but it was hot, the sun already baking the very idea of moisture from the heavy air.

His tense eyes focused on Sherlock’s, John said, “I need to know you’re ready.”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course I’m ready,” he said, gesturing between them. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not what I meant,” John said, and Sherlock’s frown deepened.

“Then what? Spit it out.”

His lips twisting to the side, John sighed. “I need to know if it comes down to it that you can take care of yourself. And… that you’ll have my back.”

“I…” Sherlock paused, letting the words die away as he studied John’s face. “Do you think I won’t?”

“I don’t know what to think.” John’s expression hardened. “Because they _will_ find us if we go up there, and I can’t guarantee safety for either of us. We’re walking into a trap, and there’s only so much I can do.” John’s eyes betrayed his disquiet, the irises darkening, small stress lines creasing the edges.

Sherlock wet his dry lips and pursed them into a thin line. Finding his voice, he vowed, “I’ll have your back.” He could see John’s hesitation, his unwillingness to accept Sherlock’s word. The lack of trust burned. “I _will_ , _”_ Sherlock insisted. “I helped before, didn’t I? I didn’t have to, back out there in the desert, but I did.” He searched John’s eyes, stepped closer until he could feel his breathing in the space between them. “John, you told me your story. I know what you’ve been through, and I know it’s not easy to trust me. But believe me when I say that I won’t betray you.”

Rooted in place, John stared at him. His hands clenched and released, moving restlessly at his side as he glanced away, checked their surroundings with an anxious expression. Slowly, with marked reluctance, John nodded. “Okay,” he said in a rough voice. He cleared his throat, the word a little clearer when he repeated, “Okay.” There was a brief hesitation, his eyes flickering over Sherlock’s face. “And I’ll have yours.” It sounded strangely formal, but Sherlock would take what he could get.

“I know.” Offering a curt nod and stepping back, Sherlock asked, “Then what are we waiting for?” He looked toward the entrance of the building. “If they’re waiting for us, it seems rude to keep them waiting.” When he looked at John, Sherlock extended a small, strained smile.

Instead of returning it as Sherlock expected, John reached out and caught Sherlock’s arm. Startled by the contact, Sherlock turned and faced him fully. John’s eyes were intent on his, and his expression was grave as he looked up at Sherlock.

“Just…” He swallowed, breathed out a heavy sigh and shook his head, “just be ready for anything. Alright?”

“Always am,” Sherlock quipped. John’s intensity made him feel unbalanced, the grip on his arm burning through his sleeve.

“You weren’t ready for me.” John didn’t protest when Sherlock pulled his arm away. He did so gently, without force or anger, and John dropped his hand.

“Not sure anyone can ever truly be ready for you.” Looking down at him, Sherlock pursed his lips. “And that’s where we have the upper hand. You tip the scales.”

A series of reactions passed over John’s face, a flicker that was there and gone before he stepped away. “Right.” His eyes searched Sherlock’s and lingered until he looked toward the entrance. His head dipped in a short nod. “Let’s go, then.”

Bound by that unexpected and silent agreement, they turned toward the building together.

* * *

They didn’t encounter anyone on the stairs or in the hallway outside Phoenix’s room. Approaching the door, John had the sick feeling that it was all too easy. He’d expected an ambush, expected to find someone waiting for them, and the silent, empty hall filled him with dread.

Gun drawn, he waved Phoenix out front and followed close behind. John walked half-ducked, turning to check behind them, looking ahead until they reached the door. He let Phoenix stand in front and stood back to back with him. They didn’t touch, not quite, but John could feel the heat of Phoenix’s body despite the inches between them.

Hands wrapped around the gun, John held his breath and listened. He heard the rustle of fabric and the jingle of metal as Phoenix dug out his keys. Before he could slip them into the lock, John reached back with one hand and grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” he hissed, making Phoenix freeze.

“What?” came the whispered reply.

The arm under his grip tensed as John checked the hall. “Just… one second.” He gave Phoenix’s arm an instinctive squeeze and moved him away from the door. John dropped his hold and rolled his shoulders. “Keep watch,” he said, waiting until Phoenix pulled out the gun at his back and did as told.

With marked reluctance, John faced the door. Turning his back to the hallway made every instinct scream that he was making a mistake, but he willed it into silence and focused. He leaned forward, pressing his ear to the wood, and listened. Other than Phoenix’s loud breathing behind him, John didn’t hear anything. He closed his eyes and listened harder for a few seconds more, counting them out in his head until he reached twenty — still nothing.

Leaning back, he turned to see Phoenix staring up and down the hall. “I think it’s empty,” John said, nudging him gently in the arm to catch his attention. “But let me go in first, yeah?”

Phoenix met his hard eyes for a moment. He favoured John with a long, lasting gaze as if searching for something. Finally, he nodded and slipped past as John moved aside. Phoenix worked the key into the lock, his movements near-silent, but John still winced at the soft scrape of metal.

The tumblers shifted, more sound that made John bare his teeth before the handle turned and the door creaked inward. With his fingers on the handle to keep it from swinging all the way open, Phoenix looked expectantly at John. Nodding, John rechecked the hall before he slipped past him and into the room.

Gun gripped in both hands, the muzzle aimed toward the floor, John shifted between the door and the wall. He cleared the entryway and scanned the left side of the room. It was clear, the bed there empty, and John pivoted on his heel. The gun lifted and swung in an arc, following the motion as he scanned the room.

It was small and cramped and entirely empty.

John’s breath escaped in a rush, and he pushed the door open to reveal Phoenix. His pale eyes flashed over John, noting his stance and the lowered gun. “It’s clear,” John said, stepping back to let him in. “Come in and close the door.”

Phoenix's expression was hard to read, eyes still tracking over John from head to toe before he lowered his own weapon and entered the room. He closed the door behind him. Phoenix did so quietly, but the click of the handle still sounded far too loud to John’s over-focused senses.

John turned away from him and stalked through the room. Anxiety buzzed through his body, and he clenched his jaw to still some of the shivering adrenaline that made his eyes dart over the room. John checked inside a small closet, ducked to look beneath the bed, flipped the curtains aside. Each place he investigated was clear, but his unease refused to fade. He watched Phoenix move around the room until he dropped to his knees and dug something out from under the bed. John’s eyes lingered on the dip of his back and the curve of hip and flank before he quickly turned away.

Focus. He needed to focus.

John moved toward the bathroom, leaving Phoenix to gather his things. John caught a flurry of activity as Phoenix dragged a duffle from under the bed and began searching inside.

The bathroom was small and utilitarian, consisting of a sink, toilet, and a combination shower and tub. John started with the tub, pushing the curtain aside to find it empty. The toilet was hidden in a small water closet, and he checked there as well. It was clear.

John began to lower the gun when something caught his attention: a sound, not within the room but outside. He froze, holding his breath as he strained to listen over the sound of Phoenix in the next room.

There. Voices. And footsteps, out in the hall and moving closer fast, undeniably in their direction.

John closed his eyes. His mind spun as he tried to make a plan, tried to determine if he could make it to the door before they reached it.

Too close.

They were too close, and he wouldn’t make it in time. In all likelihood, he’d reach the door just as it opened. He’d have all of a few seconds before whoever was on the other side put a bullet in him. There was no time. But maybe… 

“Phoenix!” His loud hiss caught Phoenix’s attention, where he stood next to the bed, duffle bag in hand. He was looking at the door, frozen like a deer in the headlights. He turned wide eyes to John, saw that John knew and they were out of time. Their gazes met and held. Clinging to that contact, John whispered furiously, “Keep them talking. We don’t know how many there are—”

“Element of surprise,” Phoenix interrupted, his eyes darting back to the door. “Got it.” He waved at John, shooing him into the bathroom. “I have an idea. Get out of sight!”

John obeyed, stepping out of view as the main door rattled. The handle twisted, turned, and it swung open just as he ducked down low behind the bathroom door. Through the jamb, John watched two men enter the main room.

Still standing next to the bed, Phoenix greeted the men with a blank expression. He dropped a pair of socks onto the mattress and turned to face them. “Can I help you?”

Shocked by the casual question, John bit into his knuckles to silence his irrational urge to laugh. The sheer guts it took to look two men who wanted you dead in the face and ask if you could help them… God, Phoenix was mad. Completely _mad._

“Cute,” one of the men said. They entered the room, looking around with sharp eyes and hard expressions.

Crouched against the side of the tub, behind the door with the gun gripped hard in his hands, John squinted. He saw a mole on the side of the first man’s face and the gun in his hand. It was trained on Phoenix, and it didn’t move as the man moved deeper into the room. The second man was taller, his hair a shocking shade of red. He was also holding a gun, though it was at his side. They were both handguns, and John breathed a sigh of relief. Anything larger, and they’d have little hope of surviving a shoot-out.

He refocused as the first speaker said, “There’s just one.”

“Should be two,” said Redhead. There was a pause. John listened to the sound of footsteps moving around, and he shifted until he caught sight of Phoenix. His hands were raised in the air over his head. Eyes riveted to the man standing opposite him, he was focused on the gun.

“Why are you alone?” the first man asked. He hadn’t moved, letting Redhead walk the perimeter of the room. He glanced toward the bathroom before looking back at Phoenix. “Where’s the other one?”

John saw Phoenix tip his head to the side. He looked unperturbed, but his eyes were unblinking as he stared at the gun. “Who?”

“Don’t be smart with us,” Redhead snapped. He was near the bathroom, and John could just make out half of him with his narrow line of sight. His fingers twitched on the handle of the gun at his side. “We know there’s two of you. The mercenary — where is he?”

“Wouldn’t dream of wasting my intellect on ‘being smart with you,’” Phoenix quipped, making John close his eyes briefly and curse.

 _Don’t bait them,_ he thought fiercely, hoping Phoenix would pick up on his silent command.

The gun aimed at Phoenix’s chest rose until it was level with his face. “I’ll ask you one more time,” said the first man in a calm voice, “where is the mercenary?”

Phoenix didn’t move a muscle. “He’s gone.”

John shifted until he caught sight of the first man’s face. He was frowning, his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean he’s _gone?”_ There was a dangerous edge to his voice, and John tensed, recognizing the tone as a warning.

Evidently, Phoenix heard it as well. His eyes darted to the side, toward the bathroom, but they moved back to the man in front of him before he could give away John’s hiding place. “I escaped,” he said, his voice perfectly steady. It was impressive, the way he managed to control his anxiety so well under gunpoint.

John licked his lips and reminded himself to focus. Now wasn’t the time to let Phoenix’s bravery — or was it idiocy? — distract him.

Redhead was on the move again. He was nearing the bathroom, but his eyes were on Phoenix. “Not sure I believe him,” he said in a sullen tone.

To John’s shock, Phoenix actually shrugged. “Believe what you want. Makes no difference to me.”

Redhead stopped and turned toward him. “Why’s that?”

Phoenix looked away from the gun, toward Redhead. It put John in his line of sight. Their eyes met, Phoenix staring hard at him for a second before he looked back at Redhead. “What’s that old saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

The man aiming the gun at Phoenix snorted. “You’ve sure got some stones, don’t you?”

Redhead was more focused on the conversation, refusing to let Phoenix distract him. “You’re saying the mercenary was your enemy? Thought you two were working together.”

A low scoff met his comment, and Phoenix fixed him with a pitying gaze. “He dragged me out into the desert for money. I haven’t had many friends in my life, but that doesn’t seem like a friendly gesture.”

“Guess not,” Redhead agreed. He was clearly the leader of the two, and as he turned toward the bathroom, John warily eyed his boots. “Still don’t believe you.”

“Makes no difference to me,” came Phoenix’s blasé reply.

The man kept coming, moving toward the bathroom door. John tensed. Muscles coiled, gun gripped, his legs burning with the surge of energy that would send him upward, he waited. Just a little closer. A little closer…

“You should’ve just killed him,” Redhead mused in a thoughtful voice. “Would have saved us the work of hunting him down.” He entered the bathroom, hand on the doorknob as he looked toward the sink.

John tensed, waiting until Redhead looked over his shoulder at Phoenix.

“Pity, really. It’ll be a slower death for him now.”

John straightened, letting the coiled energy in his legs propel him upwards and around the door. The gun rose, drew level with the man’s face. “You sure about that?”

Redhead turned toward him, but surprise made him slow. He reacted before lifting his gun, and John didn’t give him the chance to catch up. He registered the shock on Redhead’s face before his finger curled. The shot was deafening in the small space, and John grimaced at the noise. He resisted the instinct to cover his ears and block out the sound, closing his eyes against the spray of blood that spattered his face.

Redhead dropped like a puppet with its string cut. His blood spread dark and fast over the tiled floor, reaching for John’s boots, but he was already moving. John stepped over the body, twisted to avoid the door, and ducked into the main room. He went down on a knee and darted forward, anticipating the bullet that passed overhead. He’d expected the other man’s reaction, and John took the miss as an opportunity to gain the upper hand.

But when he rose, gun aimed, he couldn’t get a clear shot.

When his shot missed John, the man turned to Phoenix as a secondary option. Phoenix, anticipating the shift, lunged forward and caught his arm. His shoulder slammed into the man’s chest, and they both stumbled.

John watched as the man reacted, too late to use the gun again. The proximity turned into a disadvantage as Phoenix grabbed his wrist and hauled him sideways. Phoenix bared his teeth in a fierce snarl, and the man went sideways, caught off guard until he wasn’t. He found his footing, and they grappled, both locked together and struggling for the upper hand.

Still standing near the bathroom with his gun raised, John couldn’t get a clear shot. Not with the way Phoenix was moving. He was darting in and away, shifting low to catch the man off balance with each strike. He was quick on his feet, surprisingly so for his height, landing forceful blows that made even John flinch.

John kept his finger off the trigger. With the adrenaline in his veins, it would be too easy to slip up, take a shot when he shouldn’t. He tracked the man’s movement as the two struggled toward the bed and couldn’t tell who had the advantage.

With his teeth bloodied by his cut lip, and a fresh bruise swelling on his cheek, Phoenix looked like a feral thing.

The man stumbled, tripping over his feet as Phoenix darted out of his path. He started to tip back and grabbed blindly. He caught Phoenix by the front of his shirt, dragging Phoenix down with him. Phoenix planted his feet but staggered, and the man caught his balance before Phoenix could right himself.

Still trying to find a clear shot, John could only watch helplessly as the man twisted to the side and raised his arm. He saw an opportunity and seized it, slamming the butt of his gun hard into the side of Phoenix’s head. The blow was devastating.

John heard the sharp crack of metal against bone, and Phoenix dropped like a rag doll.

John didn’t hesitate, didn’t waste time staring, just took aim and fired. The bullet caught the man in the chest as he lifted his weapon. He staggered and reeled back, blinking in shock at the blood spreading over his shirt.

The man was still staring when John crossed the room and shot him between the eyes.

Stepping back and letting the body crumple to the floor, John dropped to a crouch over Phoenix.

He was out cold, eyes closed, a large bruise rising on his temple. It blended with the yellowing marks on Phoenix’s face, lighting up his face like an ugly rainbow.

John knelt on one knee and bent over him. “Phoenix.” There was no response, and he glanced toward the door. It was only a matter of time before someone came to investigate the noise, and the sound of gunfire could only keep people away for so long. John set the gun down to free his hands and gently cupped Phoenix’s face in his palms. His eyelids didn’t even flutter, and John breathed out a soft curse, “Shit.”

His eyes darted back to the door. It was open: they had nowhere to hide. There were two dead bodies and one unconscious man, and John knew he’d be in trouble if someone discovered them now.

He could leave. He could. Just get up, take the guns, his and Phoenix’s bags, and go. Disappear and never look back. It would be easy for John to disappear in the confusion. For all he knew, Phoenix might not even wake up.

But the longer he thought of it, the more John realized he couldn’t. It was true that he could leave Phoenix here without a second glance if he really wanted to, but he didn’t want to.

John tore his eyes away from the door and looked down at the face bracketed between his palms. “Wake up,” he hissed, unsurprised when Phoenix didn’t so much as twitch. John heard the impact, knew it was hard enough to scramble someone’s brain, if not outright kill them. But Phoenix was still breathing, and his pulse was fast but strong under John’s fingers when he pressed them beneath his jaw.

He was alive but out cold.

“Goddammit.” John shifted his grip and felt over Phoenix’s skull, searching for a fracture. He felt a lump rising on the side of his head, hidden beneath the blood-matted curls. There was a smudge of red on John’s fingers when he lifted them away. But the cut itself was minor, a scrape from the hard edge of the gun’s handle.

Feeling an unexpected rush of relief, John cupped Phoenix’s face between his hands again and stared down at his closed eyes. “Come on,” he urged in a quiet, fierce voice, “don’t quit on me now.” He gave a gentle squeeze and smoothed his thumbs over Phoenix’s sharp cheekbones. It felt like a strange thing to do, but John found he couldn’t help it. Phoenix’s skin was flushed and warm, reactive beneath his touch, and John repeated the gesture. It was almost a caress as he ducked his head and whispered, “Come on, Phoenix. Wake up.”


	12. Establishing Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While discussing their next steps, Sherlock extends an invitation to John.

The gun connected with Sherlock’s skull in a supernova of pain and left behind a shattering haze of agony. It was like an explosion in his head, a detonation of an entire structure that dissolved his mind into black. He went down, consciousness snuffed out like a candle.

It was like slipping beneath the surface of dark water. He was there, then he wasn’t.

When he finally clawed his way back to the surface, everything was in shambles. His skull ached, his Mind Palace was in ruin, and there were hands on his face. The grip was like iron. It wouldn’t have been unpleasant in normal circumstances, but even the slightest contact with his face felt like agony. It made Sherlock whimper, and he tried to pull away.

The hold on his face gentled at once, but it didn’t disappear. Sherlock felt fingers curl beneath his skull, supporting it off the ground. One hand remained on his face, a thumb sweeping slowly over the side of his jaw. “Jesus,” came the breathy sound of a voice above him, “I wasn’t sure you were going to wake up.”

 _John._ That was John speaking to him, John cupping Sherlock’s skull like it might crack apart without his hands there to hold it together. He wrinkled his nose in a wince and tried to speak, but his voice wouldn’t come. He was dazed, the force of the blow still radiating through his head and down his neck. Sherlock imagined that he could feel it right through to the tips of his fingers, and he groaned.

“We need to move,” John said. “Someone will have heard the shots, and we can’t stay here.” He pushed a tangle of hair back from Sherlock’s forehead and cursed under his breath. “Shit, that looks bad.” His hands were still on Sherlock’s face, and his thumb traced gently over Sherlock’s cheek. The touch wasn’t unwelcome, and Sherlock let himself tilt into the contact. He was seeking more of it, John’s thumb a comforting contrast to the agony ripping through his head.

“How long was I out?” The words sounded like mush, and Sherlock winced.

“A minute, maybe two.” John’s thumb paused. As if realizing what he’d been doing, John stilled his hand and said in a gruff voice, “We need to go, Phoenix.”

Sherlock felt a spark of irrational anger flicker to life within his chest. It took him a second to pinpoint where it came from, and by then, John was coaxing him into sitting up. He felt a hand on his sternum, and Sherlock forced his eyes open to see John squatting in front of him. He was holding Sherlock up with one hand on his chest, the other moving to his back. The absence of the gentle touch on his face was vivid, and Sherlock squinted at John in annoyance.

John paused in his attempts to help Sherlock stand. “What’s that look for?” Sherlock didn’t answer at first, and John tipped his head to the side, peering into his eyes. “Phoenix, can you hear me?”

The sound of the codename, given to him by the same men who wanted them both dead, made Sherlock snarl. “Don’t call me that,” he said through his teeth. His voice sounded raw and raspy, the words dragged forth through sheer force of will.

John frowned. “What? You’re not making sense.”

“I said,” Sherlock growled, struggling to keep his eyes open, “don’t _call_ me that.” He squinted against the light and the pain in his head.

“What?” John repeated. “What are you talking about, Phoenix? You need to stand up, come on.”

“That’s not my name,” Sherlock seethed, letting John pull him to his feet. It was as much a struggle to move as it had been to open his eyes, and he huffed at his own weakness. “My name isn’t Phoenix, so don’t call me it.”

John’s voice slipped into a soothing tone, and he steadied Sherlock as he swayed dangerously off balance. “Alright, I won’t call you that anymore.” He placed a careful hand on Sherlock’s waist. “What _do_ I call you?”

Teeth clenched against the pain in his head and the ringing in his ears, Sherlock looked John in the eye. The hand on his waist was hot and firm, encouraging Sherlock to lean into the support.

“My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” He swallowed, blinking hard when his legs threatened to buckle. “Not… not fucking _Phoenix.”_

John stared at him for a moment, his frown deepening. When his brow finally smoothed out, his lips curled into a small smile.

The sight of it caught Sherlock off guard. “What?” He winced at his own loud voice and softened his tone. “Why are you smiling?”

“Nothing,” John said, still holding Sherlock up. He shook his head, that amusement lingering. “Just… are you sure that’s better than Phoenix?”

If not for the sheer, wretched pain of his skull, Sherlock might have snarled again. Scowling, he tried to support his own weight but ended up tipping back into John’s side. “Fuck off,” he snapped, eyes half-open. “At least it’s not as dull as _John.”_

John barked a sharp laugh and shook his head. “Glad to see your charming personality is still intact.” The smile disappeared, and he looked Sherlock over. “Do you think you can walk?”

Sherlock clenched his teeth at the pain in his head and shifted his legs, testing the response. His limbs did as bidden, and he felt a surge of relief. In spite of the headache, everything seemed to be intact. “I think so,” he replied. Without thinking, he tried to take a step, and his legs immediately buckled. He held out his hands, and John, without hesitation, reached out to take them. He helped Sherlock regain his balance, steadying him when Sherlock staggered.

“Take it easy.” John dropped a hand on his back, the touch heavy through Sherlock’s sweat-damp shirt. “You took one hell of a hit.”

Sherlock nodded. He winced, and even that simple gesture made his vision swim, his head ring. “Noted.”

“Right.” John glanced to the door, bit his lip, and bent down to pick up Sherlock’s duffle. “You got everything you needed before we were interrupted?”

Dragging his eyes away from the dead man on the floor, Sherlock started to nod, flinched, and waved a hand instead. “I’m good.”

“Okay.” For a moment, John stared at him before he slung Sherlock’s duffle over his other shoulder, across from his own.

He looked conspicuous with the two bags, and Sherlock felt his lips twitch with a flicker of amusement before another wave of sickening pain rolled through his head and made him groan.

“Okay, let’s go,” John said, eyeing Sherlock’s unsteady balance. “We need to get somewhere safe. Lie low and let you recover. I doubt it’ll be long before they send someone to check on these two, and I’d really prefer not to be around when they do.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and tilted his head carefully in agreement. “Lead the way, Captain.”

“Don’t call me that,” John muttered. Stepping forward, he slipped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, steadying him as Sherlock weaved with his first step. “Or I’ll let you fall down the stairs.”

“Charming,” Sherlock said drily. But he held his tongue. Leaning against John, feeling the hidden strength in John’s body, Sherlock let himself be led forward.

The smell of blood hung heavy and thick over the room, tainting the air. Sherlock imagined it clung to them both as they stepped out into the hall and disappeared into the stairwell.

* * *

John held his breath until they were clear of the building and out of sight. He heard voices on the main street and the sound of approaching emergency vehicles and knew they needed to get away from the site. They weren’t exactly inconspicuous, with Phoenix — _Sherlock_ , John reminded himself — tripping over his feet and hanging off John like a rag doll.

“Come on.” John dragged Sherlock upright when he staggered to the side for the third time. “Just… just lean on me, would you? You’re useless like this.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a real way with words, John?” Sherlock’s voice was soft and a little slurred. The casual use of his name caught John off guard, and he worked to push his surprise aside as he pulled Sherlock closer and tightened his arm around his waist.

“Oh, and you’re a silver-tongued angel?” John shot back before pausing and pressing them both against a wall. He peered around a corner and narrowed his eyes. Crowds were already forming on the main streets, and John scowled at the milling people before he leaned back out of view. “I need to get you sitting down.” John tilted his head to check Sherlock’s eyes. They were half-open and glazed. “Do you think you can walk a little further?”

Sherlock nodded, winced, and clenched his jaw. He managed a quiet, “Yes,” through his teeth, and John guided him down the alley.

It took some innovative routing, but John managed to locate a cafe with an outside seating area. He chose a table hidden from the sidewalk by an awning and a potted plant and poured Sherlock carefully into a chair. Sherlock slumped forward, his head pillowed on his arms.

“Hey.” John bent down and set the duffle bags beneath the table. He gently shook Sherlock’s shoulder, keeping at it until Sherlock raised his head and blinked at him with bleary eyes. “Stay awake, alright? I’m gonna grab us something to eat and drink so we can stay here.” He eyed the bruises on Sherlock’s face, the blood matted in his curls. “Just keep your head down and try not to look like a dead body.”

Sherlock’s reply was hoarse. “I’ll try.” He sat up a little in the chair with his head bowed. He looked more asleep than awake, but John figured it would have to do.

He strode inside and joined the queue. Keeping a careful eye on his surroundings, John was relieved to see that everyone seemed more or less involved in their own lives and worlds. Some of his tension eased, but he remained wary. He glanced outside at Sherlock, saw him blinking slowly down at the table, and approached the counter.

John returned with mint tea, two water bottles, and a plate of sausage rolls in hand. Sherlock was still awake, though it looked like he was barely clinging to consciousness.

“Here.” John set the food and drinks down on the table. “You need to eat.” Eyeing Sherlock’s appearance, he hesitated before suggesting, “Maybe you should use the loo and, you know,” he gestured at the side of his own face, “clean up some of that blood.”

Sherlock lifted a hand and touched his fingers to his temple with a flinch. “I feel like someone detonated a bomb inside my skull.”

John pulled a bundle of napkins from his pocket, snagged from the front counter. “Yeah, you took a hard hit. Do you think you can make it to the loo on your own?”

Sherlock shook his head. Even the small gesture made him flinch. “No.”

“Yeah, alright.” John reached for one of the water bottles. “Probably not a good idea for me to help you in there, what with how that would look and the anti-homosexual laws here.” He cracked the lid and dampened a folded napkin.

“Thought we were half-brothers,” Sherlock muttered with little bite. He was already sagging in his chair again.

“Better not take the chance, yeah?” Leaning across the table, John wiggled his fingers, beckoning him closer. “Tilt forward.” Sherlock obliged, lifting his chin with visible effort and leaning toward John.

Gripping his chin and eyeing the mess on his forehead, John dabbed at the half-dried blood. He watched Sherlock’s face closely for any indication of pain. His brow furrowed, but Sherlock held still, eyes glassy and fixed on John’s face. Up close, the constant regard was far more intense, and John did his best not to react to it. He was relieved when Sherlock’s face was finally clean, and John could tilt his head down to try and clean his matted curls. It was a futile effort. The blood had half-dried, making the locks stiff, resistant to John’s careful dabbing.

What Sherlock needed was a shower and a week in bed. The first might be possible, but the second was a bit of a pipe dream, even John had to admit.

He gave up on the curls and eyed the new bruise rising on Sherlock’s forehead. Leaning back, John balled the napkins into his pocket. “Bit better. Though you could do with some concealer. But it could be worse.” He received a tired sneer, the attempt clearly weak and lacking any of Sherlock’s usual venom.

They were quiet for a spell. John watched the people passing by and ate a sausage roll when his stomach began to growl. Across from him, Sherlock sipped at his mint tea with all the poise of an invalid.

John began to fidget. “So,” he began, prodding at a flaky crumb on his thumb, “you have your passports now.” He saw Sherlock raise his head from the edge of his vision but kept his eyes on his hands. “Where will you go?”

His movements slow and pained, Sherlock set his cup down on the table with a soft click. John kept his eyes on his thumb and didn’t look up to meet the sharp gaze aimed his way.

“Somewhere not here,” Sherlock said in a flat, wary voice. “You?”

When John chanced a look, he saw those searing eyes fixed on him, searching. He dropped his gaze again and shrugged. “Dunno. Been thinking about Bali.”

“Bali?” Sherlock repeated, confused.

John shrugged again. “You know — white, sandy beaches, clear blue water.” He turned and stared at the people passing by without seeing them. “Someplace where no one will look for me.”

Sherlock lifted his tea again. But he didn’t drink, just rested the rim of the cup against his bottom lip. “How will you get there?” he asked, studying John over the steam curling from the cup.

Hands resting flat in front of him, John drummed his fingers in a staccato pattern. “Not sure,” he admitted.

The cup clicked against the table, and Sherlock laid his hands on the table next to it. With his long fingers stretched out, their fingertips almost touched.

John stared at Sherlock’s hands. It was a moment before either of them spoke.

Sherlock was the first to break the silence, quietly asking, “Do you really think they won’t be waiting for you at the border?”

John stiffened. “I could fly.” He tapped a fingertip against a mark on the table’s surface. It brought their hands closer together, though still without touching.

“You could,” Sherlock agreed, too readily. John frowned and looked at him. His eyes were on John’s hands, unblinking and focused despite their glazed appearance. Before John could speak, Sherlock said, “Or… you could come with me.” His palm slipped over the table, initiating the barest hint of contact between them as the tip of his middle finger brushed John’s pinky.

Stunned by the simple invitation and the touch, John pursed his lips. Sherlock’s index finger joined the first, the rough slide of his fingertips burning. It was like touching a candle flame.

A little thrill went through John’s body, and he stared at the small point of contact. “What?”

“Come with me,” Sherlock repeated quietly.

“Why?” John paused and considered. “Where?”

“Because you know they won’t let you go that easily,” Sherlock said, his eyes still on John’s hands. “We’ve killed four of them, now. Your employer won’t be happy about that. If he’s anything like Moriarty was — and I have the suspicion he might be — then he won’t just let you go.”

John lifted his eyes. He studied Sherlock’s face and saw nothing he could make sense of. Sherlock was still staring at their hands, at his two fingers where they rested against John’s. His expression was impossible to read, and John frowned. Slowly, he curled his hand into a fist, creating space between them. “I’ve been a dead man walking for a while.” He rolled his shoulders and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder with unfocused eyes. “Ever since that night, when I was shot. Whether they catch me now or later… it hardly matters.”

“It matters.” Sherlock’s hand slid across the table again, once again pressing his fingertips to John’s curled knuckles. “John,” he said in a soft voice, “it matters.”

John pulled his hand arm back and dropped his hand in his lap. He stared down at the table with a frown, waiting until Sherlock slowly sat back and retracted his arm. Jaw clenched, John asked, “Why do you care?”

Sherlock frowned. He tilted his head in a silent request for clarification, and John huffed.

“About me. Why would you care about what happens to me?”

Sherlock tensed, and his eyes darted away. “I’ll admit, my reasons are somewhat self-serving.”

Watching his face closely, still unable to read his expression, John said, “Care to share what they are?”

Still not meeting John’s eyes, Sherlock frowned. “I’m in no shape to travel on my own. I know that. And, while it’s not ideal, you’ve proven yourself to be…” He hesitated. His eyes shifted to John’s face and lingered as he studied John’s expression as if gauging his reaction. As if changing what he’d planned to say, Sherlock shook his head and finished, “You would be an asset.”

Taken aback by the formal statement, John snorted. The sound made Sherlock blink. “So you want to keep me around as… what? A _bodyguard?”_

Sherlock’s frown deepened. His tongue darted out, passing over his split lip as he shook his head. A brief flash of pain creased his features. “I only meant that we are stronger together.”

John stiffened. He opened his mouth to deny it but couldn’t deny the truth in Sherlock’s solid logic.

It made him uneasy.

“You don’t know me,” he finally said, breaking the tense silence following Sherlock’s words.

“I don’t,” Sherlock agreed readily, “and you don’t know me. That’s true. And yet… here we are.” He shrugged. “We’ve saved one another more than once. I’d say that means something.”

Lips pursed, John leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Oh? What does it mean?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know.” He held John’s gaze, refusing to back down from John’s hard stare. “But it matters, and I think we’d both be better off working together, rather than alone.”

John settling back into his chair with a snort. “I’ve been alone for a long time, Sherlock. Not sure it would be in my best interest to change that now.”

“And how has that worked out for you?” Sherlock snapped. John’s careless dismissal of his suggestion clearly rankled.

John winced, forced to admit, “Poorly.” He sighed, the fight draining out of him in a rush. It left behind nothing but heavy fatigue and body aches. “Look, Sherlock… What exactly are you asking from me?”

His eyes sharpening, Sherlock fixed him with a searing stare, making John regret the question.

“Help me get out of Morocco.” Sherlock leaned forward with an earnest expression. Despite his head injury, he was abuzz with renewed energy. His hands landed on the table, and John eyed them warily, grateful to have his arms folded safely over his chest. “I have a contact, someone who can ensure our safety. He’ll be able to help.” His voice deepened, took on what John thought sounded like a coaxing tone. “Trust me to get you out of Morocco.” Sherlock’s stare burned into John, their eyes locked. “You can choose where you go from there. But let me do this for you, first.”

Trying to buy himself time to answer, John rubbed a hand over his face as if considering Sherlock’s words. He winced at the scrape of stubble. God, he really needed a shave. “Why would you do that?” he asked, dropping his hand. “Why would you do all that for me?”

“For us,” Sherlock corrected, still leaning toward him. “Not just for me. John. Help me get out of Morocco, and I’ll guarantee that you make it out, too. That you make it out alive.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

His expression still earnest, his eyes glowing with conviction, Sherlock grinned. “Give me a moment. I’ve only been working on this plan for all of five minutes.” He held out a hand, and John eyed it warily. “When you captured me, I had a laptop. Do you still have it?”

Relieved that Sherlock wasn’t asking him to shake on a deal he wasn’t sure he wanted to make, John nodded. He unfolded his arms and nudged his duffle bag under the table with the toe of his boot. “Yeah. In my bag.”

“Give it to me,” Sherlock ordered.

John rolled his eyes. “Your manners really are shite.”

Sherlock wiggled his fingers impatiently, and John sighed. He ducked under the table to dig through his bag and retrieve the device. Setting it on the table, he watched Sherlock pounce on the computer and bit back a smile. “What are you going to do?”

Sherlock opened the laptop and squinted at the screen before he grinned. “Good, there’s still power.” Looking at John over top of the computer, Sherlock grimaced. “And, to answer your question, I’m going to contact my brother.”

* * *

Sherlock had little doubt that John was reluctant about accepting his offer. The disquiet rising off of him was almost palpable. Even with the headache and the hazy quality of his thoughts, Sherlock kept an eye on him. He wouldn’t be shocked if John decided to bolt, marking Sherlock as a liability better left behind, danger or no.

Keeping an eye on John while watching the laptop power on required a level of focus that, under ordinary circumstances, wouldn’t have been an issue for Sherlock. Sherlock struggled to disable the computer's encryption locks with a concussion, people passing by, and the thundering pain in his head. By the time he’d finally made it into the system, his eyes were pulsing from the agony of his headache. John was shifting to the edge of his chair as if prepared to make a run for it.

Teeth clamped down against the urge to vomit or pass out, Sherlock fired up his VPN and opened a secure email server. The email he typed out to his brother was simple. Something that, if intercepted, would make little sense to anyone but himself and Mycroft.

> _Dearest brother,_
> 
> _I hope this email finds you well. My days have been pleasant, but I find the weather far too hot as of late. I think it might be time for me to move to cooler climates. I may be able to get by with a fan, but I think a change of scenery will prove far more effective in the long run._
> 
> _Give my love to Annabelle and the children._
> 
> _Kind Regards,_
> 
> _Sigerson._

Catching how John was eyeing the laptop, Sherlock turned the screen toward him once he finished typing. John glanced at him in surprise before dropping his focus to the computer. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the email, forehead creasing in a slow frown.

“I’m guessing that’s written in some kind of code?”

Turning the laptop back, Sherlock nodded. “It is.”

John tapped a fingertip to his bottom lip in thought. Sherlock watched him for a moment. His eyes lingered on the soft flesh beneath John’s finger before he forced his attention back to the screen. “I assume the reference to the hot weather is to let him know the area is no longer safe?” At Sherlock’s nod, John smirked. “Very similar to military language. So you’re asking him to help you leave Morocco?”

“Yes.”

“And Annabelle? I’m guessing there’s no wife named Annabelle.”

Pleased by John’s perceptiveness, Sherlock tilted his head to the side. He peered at him from beneath his lashes, over top of the screen. “Very good. Yes, and no kids, either. My brother is unmarried — Annabelle refers to Moriarty’s network. ‘Kind regards’ means I’ve been compromised. We have several sign-offs with different meanings.”

“Smart.” Leaning back in his chair, John folded his hands on the table. He looked impressed in spite of his agitation.“And Sigerson?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “An alias I’ve used since leaving London. It’s on one of my passports.”

“Right.” John surveyed their surroundings for a silent moment. He leaned forward again and picked at one of the sausage rolls without interest, his appetite clearly disappearing as his anxiety returned. It buzzed in the air between them, setting Sherlock on edge and making his head throb. “Now what?”

“We wait.” Sherlock sent the email. He wiped his history, disconnected the VPN, and powered the laptop down.

John looked uneasy by the simple reply. “That’s it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mycroft won’t take long to answer, but, yes. There’s only an hour time difference between Morocco and England, though it will likely take him some time to make arrangements.”

“Your… your brother’s name is Mycroft?” John frowned

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock tilted his head. “Yes? And?”

John sighed. “Nothing. Just… Sherlock. Mycroft.” He smirked. ‘Your parents have strange taste in names.”

“They’re traditional,” Sherlock said defensively, glaring at John’s amused expression. He bent down to slip the laptop into his bag and immediately regretted the movement. It was a long moment of dizzy, throbbing pain before Sherlock could sit up again and, when he did, nausea rippled through him. “That was a mistake.”

John pursed his lips. “Yeah, you look kind of green.” He drummed his fingers against the table, his disquiet only increasing. “We need to move,” he said, eyes narrowed as he studied the people passing by the cafe, “and you need to rest. I want to get somewhere out of sight.”

Sherlock started to nod, felt the tight, pulsating tension in his temples, and thought better of it. “Perhaps a hotel on the outskirts of the city?”

“That’ll work.” John was on his feet at once, pulling both duffle bags over his shoulders. He looked down at Sherlock and hesitated. “Are you alright to walk on your own?”

It took intense focus to make it back to his feet, but Sherlock managed. He stood with one hand on the table, only weaving slightly. Finding his balance was a struggle, but he finally did and sighed, “I’ll manage.”

John offered a curt nod and a doubtful glance. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The hotel reminded Sherlock of the one in Nador, though they were on the first floor this time, and the door faced a courtyard. John handled the payment, leaving Sherlock outside to wince at the sun and lean against a wall. His balance was severely compromised, and any strength he’d regained at the cafe was swiftly dissipating, washed away by his headache.

By the time John reappeared with a room key, Sherlock was swaying on his feet. John hurried to unlock the door and usher him inside. Sherlock barely bothered to check the room, making his way to one of the beds and collapsing onto the covers.

The layout of the beds was similar to their last room, and Sherlock figured it must be a standard setup in the smaller, two-person rooms. At least here, he didn’t have to worry about John tying him to the frame. They were on different terms now, more or less on the same side, and on a first-name basis — even if John’s first name was likely a lie.

Sherlock rolled onto his side and cracked his eyes open. Sitting up was a struggle, but he managed. One shoulder balanced against the wall, Sherlock watched John move around the room, closing the curtains, checking the closet and bathroom. Satisfied, he prowled restlessly around the space. Sherlock felt tired just watching him and considered ordering him to sit down. But he scrapped the idea at once, knowing it would only make John angry. Now wasn’t the time to antagonize him. Now was the time to keep him close and convince him that staying with Sherlock was in his best interest.

John disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sherlock leaned against the wall and listened to the sound of the shower when it turned on.

Eyes unfocused, he carefully considered his offer at the cafe and wondered at his own motives. He’d been honest when he told John they worked well together. Sherlock didn’t lie when he said they would have a better chance of escaping Morocco together. John would be an asset, and Sherlock needed all the help he could get. Concussed, injured with killers on his heels, he was in poor shape. Keeping John with him might mean the difference between succeeding or failing.

But he knew there was more to it than that. Beyond immediate necessity, Sherlock hadn’t figured John out. He knew more about him now, thanks to his backstory, but he still didn’t know him. And he wanted to, Sherlock realized. He couldn’t let John leave without cracking the case of who he was. Selfish it may be, and likely stupid as well, but Sherlock wasn’t ready to give him up.

The bathroom door opened, scattering his thoughts. Sherlock blinked, frowned at the hazy quality of his vision, and sat up with difficulty. He watched John exit the bathroom in clean clothes, a towel in one hand, his hair still dripping from the shower. Sherlock sat still as John settled on the bed opposite him and began to scrub the towel over his head.

With the narrow beds so close together, their knees almost brushed.

“You going to take a shower?” John asked.

Sherlock grimaced and shook his head. Even the idea of standing was unappealing, and the thought of something striking his skull — even something as harmless as water droplets — made him wince.

“Right.” Finished with his hair, John stood and draped the towel over the back of a chair. He returned and stood over Sherlock, eyes narrowed as he looked down at him. “You need rest, but I want to examine you first.” Without waiting for a response, John dug into his duffle bag and returned with his first-aid kit.

Sherlock sat through the examination in silence, both exhaustion and pain-fatigue making his body leaden. He let John lift his lids and shine a light into both of his eyes, and sat still as John carefully examined Sherlock’s skull and checked for soft spots.

When John sat back, he looked satisfied. “It’s not as bad as it could have been. Your pupillary response is strong and reactive, and you’re no longer slurring your words. I think you’ll be fine to sleep for a bit.” Packing up his supplies, John returned the kit to his duffle. “I’m going to keep watch.”

Struck by the efficiency of John’s work, the kindness lingering beneath his words and actions, Sherlock frowned. He didn’t speak, and when his silence stretched onward, John raised an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

Sherlock hesitated before he finally shrugged and said, “Thank you.”

John’s eyes widened slightly before he schooled his face into a blank expression. “Just… it’s fine.” Clearly awkward, he rubbed his nape and cleared his throat. “It’s fine,” he repeated, looking around the room. His hands fidgeted at his sides, betraying his discomfort. “I’m going to get a damp cloth for your head. It’ll help.”

He turned away and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Sherlock to stew over John’s response to his gratitude. The last time he’d attempted kindness, John had reacted with a cruel comment. This time, he’d fled.

Baby steps.

Lying down again, Sherlock pulled the blanket over his body with a quiet groan, eyes screwed tightly shut against the pain in his head. It felt like someone was striking a hammer against his skull, the agony unrelenting. The darkness behind his eyelids was a small comfort after the bright sun outside.

When John returned, Sherlock was on the cusp of sleep. He stirred, falling still at John’s soft, “Don’t get up.”

Sherlock relaxed, sinking back into the mattress. He was hardly aware of the cool cloth placed on his forehead, but the comfort that came with it made Sherlock sigh in relief. His dry, cracked lips parted, and the beginnings of another _thank you_ lingered on his tongue. But it went unspoken, and Sherlock slipped into a dark, dreamless sleep.


	13. Partnership Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John considers Sherlock's invitation and makes a decision. Sherlock hears back from his brother.

With Sherlock fast asleep, John was left to his own thoughts. He waited until Sherlock was out cold, then dragged a chair over to the entrance and prepared to keep watch. He set the chair beside the window, next to the door, and perched on the edge. John kept one gun near at hand and cleaned the other, swapping them when one was finished, starting on the other. When he’d passed Sherlock’s duffle, his curiousity piqued, John had looked inside and found a Glock. He’d picked it up, turned it over, and glanced at Sherlock.

He’d been deep asleep, and the gun looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Lips pursed at the poor upkeep, John had taken the weapon and cleaned it as well, filling the magazines with the bullets he found wrapped in a pair of old jeans, tucked near the bottom of the bag.

With all three firearms cleaned, reloaded and pieced back together, John had nothing else to keep him busy. He’d managed to kill the better part of nearly two hours, and Sherlock was still dead to the world. Sitting between the door and the window, John flicked the curtain aside and looked out.

He didn’t see anyone in the parking lot, and the rooms next door were silent. He heard voices a few rooms down, but it sounded like the commonplace noise of children, nothing alarming.

Sig resting on his lap, John set his hands against his thighs and faced the room. Sherlock was in the far bed, curled up with his back to John. He looked surprisingly small, and the sight was off-putting to John, who thought of him as larger-than-life. Not just because of Sherlock’s height, but because of his persona. His focus was intense enough that John always felt it like a physical presence, his pale stare like a brand pressed to John’s skin. Even when they’d been enemies, he’d still been a force to be reckoned with. Now that they were on the same side, John found that impression had only increased. It was strange to see Sherlock now looking so reduced.

Agitated by the stillness of his surroundings, John closed his eyes. He tried to breathe the tautness out from his body, but it refused to dissipate, lingering in his stiff shoulders and aching back. He felt like an over-tightened piano wire, ready to snap, vibrating with barely-contained tension.

Palms rubbing over his thighs, fingers curling against his bent knees, John opened his eyes. He looked at Sherlock, unblinking, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as he rolled onto his back. His head lolled on the pillow, turned toward John. His face, typically pale with a red-overtone from sun exposure, looked closer to grey. His eyelids were dark, the skin beneath darker still, both from exhaustion and the shadows cast by his long lashes. He looked worn out, and John couldn’t blame him. He felt the same bone-deep weariness communicated by Sherlock’s pallor.

Still gripping his knees, John looked at Sherlock and thought about his invitation. He’d asked John to stay with him, to help him escape Morocco. And, in return, Sherlock would use his connections to help John do the same. It was a tempting offer —both because John didn’t think he would make it out of Morocco without encountering his ex-employers and because the idea held a hint of excitement.

He was, effectively, now unemployed. Since he was a wanted man, John doubted he could rely on the Colonel to put in a good word for him with other hires. If what Sherlock said was true, and John’s ex-employer was part of some massive, international crime network, it was unlikely that John would find new mercenary work with someone unconnected.

It seemed that his options had become severely limited.

The hotel was quiet, and, save for the soft, even sound of Sherlock’s breathing, the silence felt absolute. John’s thoughts were impossible to block out, loud and discordant and demanding his attention. They fed his anxiety and made him feel restless. There was little to do but think, and John kept returning to Sherlock’s offer.

He’d felt immediate resistance at the suggestion, and that reluctance lingered now. John still thought it would be better if they parted, but he found himself with fewer and fewer reasons to believe that. They’d worked well together — so far — and it seemed likely they would continue to do so. But then, where did it end? Did John stay with Sherlock indefinitely? Was that even a possibility? He had little understanding of Sherlock’s plans, knew only that he meant to dismantle the last of what had once been Moriarty’s network.

But what came after that? John didn’t know. All he knew was that Sherlock had a goal: he wanted his life back, and his mission was the key to achieving that. If he succeeded, John had little doubt that Sherlock wouldn’t immediately return to London to resume his life as… what was it? A consulting detective? Whatever that was, John knew Sherlock had worked too hard to get to where he’d been before Moriarty to just give it up. If John had any chance of regaining his life of before, he knew he’d take it. It only made sense that, given the opportunity, Sherlock would do the same.

Which brought John back to the problem of himself. If he helped Sherlock get out of Morocco, if he stayed with him beyond that point, what happened to John? Was there a place for him with Sherlock once they left Morocco behind?

John sat up and shifted his position, stretching out his legs, one of which had fallen asleep. The movement tipped him back, and he leaned his head against the wall. Eyes on the ceiling, he considered the question.

If Sherlock planned to return to London, there was little chance of John returning with him. The country that had betrayed him held little allure for John these days. After his discharge, he’d faded into the background. Became a ghost, only to vanish into the woodwork when the Colonel offered him a new purpose. Most of John’s jobs took him far from London, from the United Kingdom, but he’d had his fair share of wet jobs involving British citizens. He’d be the worst kind of idiot if he assumed that the British government didn’t know about him — he was an ex-British soldier who was honourably discharged and sent home, only to drop off the grid shortly after. It wouldn’t be the first time a wounded veteran disappeared, but John knew better than to assume the government he’d once called his own had simply lost tabs on him with his new line of work.

If John returned to London, he had little doubt about the likelihood that he would, at the very least, find himself detained.

John was a criminal, a mercenary, a man without a homeland. To return to the United Kingdom would be to relinquish his freedom. It would deny him the chance of living beyond the violence that had filled his life for the past several years. It didn’t matter that said violence had kept him sane: it was violence all the same. It was murder and treason and dealing in death, and John doubted he would receive any kind of praise from the British government should he return to the UK.

There was no chance of John returning to the city that had once been his home. London was no longer truly home — if it ever had been. Knowing Sherlock would inevitably return to London meant that any alliance they formed came with an expiration date. No matter what happened after Morocco, whether John stayed with Sherlock or not, they would eventually have to part ways.

With his eyes fixed on Sherlock from across the room, John wondered what that separation would do to him. He still didn’t know the man, but Sherlock was right: they’d shared intense experiences. They’d saved one another more than once, and it _did_ mean something. John wasn’t certain what it meant, but he knew Sherlock wasn’t wrong in saying that it mattered. Even worse, John saw the logic in Sherlock’s offer. He saw the benefits and knew prolonging their alliance made sense. It was tempting; he _wanted_ to work together. Despite the reminders to keep his distance, to stop trying to play nice with a stranger, John had let himself grow attached. Maybe not _attached_ , but accustomed: used to having someone at his back.

He’d been alone for a long time. John had almost forgotten how it felt to rely on someone and have them live up to your expectations. It was a relief, in a way, just as it was terrifying.

Closing his eyes, John thought back to earlier, to the two men who caught them in Sherlock’s rented room. He’d read Sherlock’s file and knew he was trained in hand-to-hand combat. But still, he’d been caught off guard by the sheer skill Sherlock displayed when push came to shove. He’d gone at his attacker with almost feral energy: wild but somehow still controlled.

It was only pure bad luck that the other man gained the upper hand and clocked Sherlock with his gun.

John had been impressed — he _was_ impressed. To see Sherlock in action, see him ‘stretch his legs’ as it were, it reminded John that he wasn’t the only one with an impressive skill set. Then there were Sherlock’s deductive abilities, his observational intensity. He was an asset and would continue to be if they stayed together.

But there was still the matter of what happened when Sherlock no longer needed him. When he was out of Morocco, protected by his brother's safety, he wouldn’t need John anymore. And John would go back to being alone. Just last night, John would have rejoiced at the thought. He’d wanted to be rid of Sherlock since picking him up. But Sherlock had planted a seed of temptation with his offer, one that John couldn’t stop from taking root. Now, John could imagine what it might be like to let someone in. Even if only to the extent of a partnership.

He found he didn’t hate the thought as much as he probably should.

And there was the matter of John’s guilt. There was the fact that Sherlock was in this situation partially because of him. John wasn’t stupid enough to take on the entirety of the blame — after all, as Sherlock had pointed out, anyone other than John likely would have killed Sherlock themselves. They wouldn’t have bothered to keep him safe, to help him, teamed up with and listened to him. Which made John’s guilt feel somewhat irrational. But it was there regardless, and it lingered, and it sank teeth deep into John and refused to let go.

There was the guilt, there was his reluctance to leave, and there was the gnawing desire to stop letting himself be alone. Sherlock had done this, planted these thoughts in John’s head. Shown him the possibility for change. He was extending a lifeline out to where John was still treading water, and John wanted to reach for it. Even if the respite was only temporary, he wanted to reach for it.

He groaned and slumped in the chair. Gun dangling from his hand, John covered his face with the other.

It was like they’d been forced together by fate. John didn’t believe in such a concept, not really, but it fit. Whatever had put them in each other’s way, it seemed determined that they stay together. It made John wish he’d left when he’d had the chance. Even if it meant abandoning Sherlock to the wolves, surely that was kinder than whatever John was doing now, giving both of them hope while knowing it couldn’t last.

If John left, he would be alone again. If he left now, Sherlock would have nothing. He would have no one. His brother was too far to help Sherlock, lying concussed in a bed on the outskirts of a Moroccan city. Until Sherlock was in his custody, his only ally was John.

And John’s only ally was Sherlock.

Setting the gun in his lap and resting his face in his hands, John closed his eyes again. He pressed the heels of his palms against them, hard enough to see starbursts against his eyelids. He pushed until his head throbbed, then he dropped his hands and slumped against the chair.

He couldn’t leave. Maybe he wasn’t a good man — it didn’t matter what Sherlock said, he _wasn’t_ — but John couldn’t bring himself to leave. At least, not yet. He’d done some terrible things, both in Afghanistan and after. He was a deeply flawed person, and he’d done far worse than abandon an injured man in a foreign city. It should be easy. John had done crueller things in his life. He’d killed without remorse, without question, without pause. Leaving should be easy.

And yet…

He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. Brow furrowed, John counted his breaths.

And yet.

In, out, in, out, the gentle susurration of regular breathing drifted to his ears.

And yet, leaving wasn’t easy. John _wanted_ to stay — at least until they were both out of Morocco. At least until Sherlock was in the hands of his brother, safe wherever he needed to be.

John straightened in the chair and picked the gun up from his lap. Filled with restless energy, he flicked the curtain aside and glanced out the window. The sun glared off the glass, and he squinted until he saw that the parking lot was still empty. The kids a few doors down had fallen silent or at least gone quiet, and the silence weighed on him.

Rising to his feet, he paced the room. John tried to keep his footsteps quiet, letting the carpet hush against his bare feet after he kicked his boots and socks off. The rough scratch of fibres against his skin helped ground him, and some of the agitation softened. But he couldn’t hold still. He needed to know the next steps, needed to know where they were going from here. If he was going to stay with Sherlock, John needed a plan. Once he knew what came next, he could determine his exit strategy.

Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. His response to Sherlock’s email would give John the information he needed.

John stopped by the beds and looked over at Sherlock. He was still asleep, sprawled out on his back with his arms flung out at either side of his body. Staring at him, John burned with impatience, but couldn’t bring himself to wake him when Sherlock needed the sleep.

Instead, he returned to pacing the room, ending up back by the door. John stood over the chair, checked outside again before leaning forward to rest his forehead on the wall. He’d know soon enough what the response was, and then he’d be ready. Adapt and react. Two things John had been doing all his life would help him determine his next steps.

He heard a quiet sound behind him and leaned back from the wall. Looking over his shoulder, John saw Sherlock’s arm move. It shifted over the covers and dropped onto his chest, and he turned his head toward the door. His eyelids twitched, and John realized he was waking.

Hands flexing at his sides as he breathed a steadying breath, John tucked the gun into his waistband and turned to face him. It was time for John to choose — himself, or Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock’s sleep was deep and strange. Absolute. He didn’t dream, just observed flashes of information and broken imagery, partial understandings of things that he couldn’t manage to grasp. The meanings were elusive, and he woke suddenly to a restless, tense air hovering within the room.

Keeping his eyes closed, Sherlock listened. He heard the sound of feet moving over the carpet and, taking a moment to focus, realized John must be pacing. The restless atmosphere belonged to him. If he listened hard enough, Sherlock fancied he could hear John thinking — could make out the turn of his thoughts. Any other time, it might have been distracting, but lingering on the edges of sleep as he was, Sherlock found it almost comforting. It was rare for him to wake up to a presence other than his own, and Sherlock let the repetitive sound of John’s pacing lull him into a stupor.

When it stopped, dying off at the other side of the room, Sherlock cracked an eye open and turned his head. John was standing between the door and the window with his forehead pressed against the wall. It was an odd position, and Sherlock took a moment to study him.

His shoulders were braced, his back stiff, arms hanging at his sides. John’s gun dangled from one hand, fingers curled around the handle with evident ease that Sherlock envied. His eyes flickered to the chair next to John, and Sherlock realized he must have kept watch while Sherlock slept, just as he’d said he would.

Looking at the window and the quality of the sunlight reaching through the curtains, Sherlock thought he couldn’t have been asleep for more than three hours. It must be around noon or just after.

Eyes closing again, Sherlock took stock of how he felt. He was sore, body aching from the events of the past few days, but the sleep had done him good. He was still tired, though no longer nearly as fatigued. Exhaustion lingered deep in his bones, but Sherlock doubted that would disappear anytime soon. What he needed was several solid days of rest and sleep, and that wasn’t likely to happen. He’d have to make do with what he could get when he could get it.

His head still throbbed, but the sharp, razor-edge of the pain had softened somewhat. It was better with his eyes closed, and Sherlock took advantage of the chance to stretch. He rubbed at his chest and heard the quiet rustle of clothing as John moved on the other side of the room. Resisting the urge to freeze, Sherlock turned his head slowly toward the door. He considered keeping his eyes closed, knowing the sun would make his headache worse, but the world was waiting. He had to rejoin it eventually.

Sherlock forced his eyelids open and saw John looking at him from where he stood by the door. Blinking, Sherlock wet his lips, swallowed and grimaced. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked, his tongue feeling thick. He ached for a drink of water and rubbed a hand over his face.

As if picking up on his need, John crossed the room and bent to search through his duffle. He came up with a water bottle and moved toward Sherlock, offering it wordlessly.

Taking it with evident relief, Sherlock struggled up onto one arm, propping himself off the mattress. “Thanks,” he murmured, cracking open the bottle and taking a swig. The water was warm, but it washed over his tongue and cleared the cottony-taste from his mouth, and Sherlock hummed his gratitude. He took another drink, swished it around before swallowing, and replaced the cap. He looked up at John. “It’s quiet,” he said, noting the lack of noise outside their room.

John nodded. “Yeah. Can’t say that I’m not glad for it.”

A small smile curled the corners of Sherlock’s lips. “No, you’re not. You’re bored out of your mind.”

The edge of John’s mouth twitched, not quite an answering smile but close. “Yeah, alright.” He took the water bottle when Sherlock held it out and dropped it back into his bag. Setting the gun on the second bed, John sat down on the other mattress. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock winced and shrugged. “Still have the headache, but the sleep helped.” He eyed John for a moment, turning over the words he wanted to ask. “Did you get any rest?”

“No.” John’s reply was short, and he looked away. His answer confirmed Sherlock’s suspicion that he’d kept watch the entire time Sherlock slept. The realization strengthened Sherlock’s conviction that he needed to keep John with him.

He struggled up into a sitting position. The motion made his head swim, and Sherlock clenched his jaw as the room spun. He saw John lean toward him with a concerned expression that he didn’t manage to school away before Sherlock saw it. Holding up a hand, Sherlock said, “I’m fine. Just need a moment.”

John nodded and settled. He watched as Sherlock winced and waited for his head to clear. It did, his vision sharpening as the pain receded. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Sherlock set his back against the wall and closed his eyes. Once he was confident the dizzy spell had passed, he opened his eyes and looked at John.

“Have you given my offer any thought?”

He saw John stiffen, but the tension dissipated as quickly as it came. John looked tired in its wake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rested his forearms on his knees, hands dangling in the open space between his thighs. “I have,” he said slowly, seeming to choose his words with care. John hesitated, glancing up at Sherlock with his head ducked. There was something endearing about the look, and Sherlock resisted the urge to lean forward. He wanted to grab John by his shirt and pull him close, drag the words out of him with proximity and eye contact. But his head throbbed, and he stayed where he was.

Instead, Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow and offered gentle encouragement. “And? What do you think?”

John pursed his lips. His eyes dropped, and he looked back at the floor.

Sherlock watched him with faint unease. Dimly, as he waited for John to speak, he realized John’s feet were bare. Staring at them, Sherlock tried to be patient.

“I think you’re probably right.”

Sherlock looked up again. He did it quickly and regretted the motion at once when pain lanced through his skull. John shifted toward him, and Sherlock breathed, “I’m fine.” Waving away the concern, Sherlock pressed a hand over his eyes and gritted his teeth together. “Does that mean you’ll come with me?” he asked, voice strained by his clenched jaw. He heard John’s slow, heavy exhale. Without seeing him, Sherlock had no idea what his face might be doing, but he doubted he’d be able to make much sense of it even if he could.

“Probably.”

Sherlock frowned and dropped his hand. He blinked a few times to clear his vision and stared at John’s face. Just as he’d thought, there were too many emotions to accurately name. “What do you mean, _probably?”_ He received a small shrug in return and tensed. “John—”

But John interrupted, speaking over him.,“It means that, yeah, I’ll likely come with you. But I don’t know how far or for how long, so you’ll just have to deal with that.”

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock growled, “I don’t _like_ not knowing.”

Another shrug from John. “Tough luck, posh boy.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, grimacing when even that made his head throb. “Don’t call me that.”

“Only if you promise not to call me Captain anymore.” There was the smallest hint of a smile on John’s lips, and Sherlock fixated on it.

“No chance,” he replied, recognizing the attempt at banter as a peace offering.

“Then get used to it, posh boy.” John rose to his feet and retrieved the gun. He cast Sherlock a lingering, uncertain look before crossing the room to recheck the window.

Watching him, Sherlock turned John’s words over in his head and breathed, “Maybe I will.”

After a shower to clean the blood from his hair and skin, Sherlock emerged in clean clothes, feeling invigorated. His head still throbbed, and the cadence of the shower spray had done little to appease the pain, but it was a worthy sacrifice to have the tacky, dried blood out of his curls.

He found waiting John in the main room. He was no longer pacing. Instead, he sat in the chair between the window and the door with his gun in hand. Though he appeared less restless than earlier, one glance told Sherlock all he needed to know about John’s state of mind. He was still uneasy, some of his misgivings eased by his decision to accompany Sherlock out of the country. Like him, he could only assume that the uncertain future of their partnership had John on edge.

Rising from the chair, John crossed the room and sat on the bed opposite where Sherlock had slept. “Did the shower help?”

Sherlock moved forward gingerly, wincing as pain rippled through his skull. “It’s nice to be clean,” he said, avoiding a direct answer. John saw through him immediately.

“Still hurts, huh?” At Sherlock’s careful nod, he squinted in sympathy. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. You need more sleep.”

“Can’t help that now.” Sherlock hesitated before sinking onto the mattress next to John. If John was surprised by the proximity, he didn’t show it. Instead, he tilted his head and looked at Sherlock. His expression was hard to read, his gaze evaluating.

When the regard began to weigh on him, Sherlock turned to face John. “What?”

John shrugged. “Nothing.” He looked away for a moment before looking back. “You did well, earlier. Back at the rented room.”

Surprised by the unexpected compliment, Sherlock blinked. His brain tried to come up with a suitable response, but all he managed was, “I have training.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched upward. “I know,” he said, raising his brows at Sherlock’s confused expression. “I read your file, remember?”

“Ah.” Sherlock looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. “Hardly seems fair.”

“What does?”

Sherlock looked at John again, eyes lingering on the slight curl of his mouth. “I didn’t get to read yours.”

To his surprise, John uttered a low, surprised laugh. He looked away and broke the eye contact, leaning forward to catch hold of Sherlock’s duffle. Fingers hooked through the strap, he dragged it over to the bed and nudged it into Sherlock’s legs.

“See if your brother replied to your weird email, Sigerson.” He paused and shook his head. “Sigerson. As if Sherlock wasn’t weird enough.”

“It’s still better than _John,”_ Sherlock quipped, reaching into the bag for the laptop. He found and uncoiled the charge cord. He turned to find an outlet beside the bed, using the action to hide his unexpected fluster at John’s casual teasing. It felt strange, though not unpleasant, to have someone joke with him so easily. After all they’d faced, and the changes in their dynamic, that it was John speaking to him this way had Sherlock feeling unbalanced.

Cord plugged into the wall, he connected it to the laptop. Setting the device on his lap, Sherlock turned back to John and opened the screen. He went through the process of connecting to the hotel wifi — a desperately easy password to guess — and fired up his VPN before decrypting his email server.

He was all too aware of John’s eyes on him and tried not to let the attention distract him from the task at hand. There was one message waiting in his inbox.

> Sherlock angled the laptop so John could see the screen and opened the reply.
> 
> _Brother,_
> 
> _I can only imagine the heatwave you are describing. Where I am, it is a cool fifteen degrees. I doubt your hot weather will reach us here, and I am grateful for it._
> 
> _Annabelle and the children send their regards. Ben had a sudden growth spurt and has shot up like a weed. Brit has been struggling with her school work. We are looking into alternative measures. I think Ben will be a big help._
> 
> _I hope you are well, Sigerson. Ben hopes you might call him soon._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _M._

Sherlock reached the end of the message before John, and he huffed, pushing the laptop over into John’s lap. John took it with a frown as Sherlock rose and began to pace. The motion fed his headache, but he needed to move. Needed to expel some of the energy humming through him despite his exhaustion. His mind felt fuzzy and stagnant, and the pacing would help clear the cobwebs.

“Who is Ben?” John asked, catching his attention. “He’s mentioned several times.”

“It’s a codeword.” Sherlock waved a hand. “Big Ben. London. The United Kingdom.”

John frowned down at the laptop. “And when he says they’re looking into alternative measures for Brit—”

“Yes, Brit. It’s a bit on the nose, but he means me.” Sherlock paused, cast John a look before he resumed pacing. “Or, rather, us.”

He saw John go still from the corner of his eye as he turned to pace in the other direction. “Does he know you’re not alone?” he asked, making Sherlock stop and turn to him. Their eyes met, and John swallowed. “Does he know about me?”

“No,” Sherlock said, halting in place before amending, “not yet.” He dropped into the chair by the door with a huff. Hands pressed together beneath his chin, Sherlock closed his eyes. He needed to think.

He’d almost forgotten John as he slipped into his head, and John’s voice made him start.

“Are you going to tell him?”

Sherlock cracked open an eye. John was still sitting on the bed, looking over his shoulder at him with an uncertain expression. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and studied him for a moment. He saw curiousity, slight confusion, and apprehension. He sighed and closed his eyes again. “Yes. But not over email.” Sherlock heard John stand and scuff his foot against the carpet. He was already anticipating the question before it left John’s mouth.

“How?”

Unperturbed by the interrogation, Sherlock replied, “The Consulate of the United Kingdom. In Tangier.”

* * *

Silence followed Sherlock’s statement. It stretched out, turned the atmosphere tense and heavy, making the air vibrate. John swallowed and found that his mouth was suddenly desert-dry. It was a moment before he could speak, and when he did, his voice sounded strained. “The what?"

Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes. “I think you heard me.”

Standing by the beds, John stared at him. “How are you going to swing that?” The idea of it, of them walking into the consulate like John wasn’t a possible traitor, made his head spin. Surely, his ex-employer would anticipate that they might attempt such a move? It seemed like too much of a risk.

“Mycroft. It’s in the email.” Sherlock rose, stretching out his long arms and wincing as he tilted his head. “And I know what you’re thinking.”

John folded his arms over his chest. “And what is it that I’m thinking?”

Hands falling back to his sides, Sherlock eyed him with an indulgent expression. It was simultaneously withering and sympathetic, and John bristled at once. Sherlock didn’t bother to acknowledge his tension. “I know you’re thinking we might be ambushed there, and I assure you that Mycroft is aware of that possibility as well.”

Glaring down at the floor, annoyed by Sherlock’s lack of anxiety for the plan, John clenched his jaw. “Is that why we’re going to the one in Tangier?” He caught Sherlock’s nod from the edge of his vision. “When?” But before Sherlock could reply, John recalled a line in the email. “‘A cool fifteen degrees,’” he quoted, biting back a smirk at the look of surprise that flickered over Sherlock’s face. It disappeared, replaced with a gleam of reluctant admiration. “Fifteen hundred hours.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I’m sure he’ll have arranged for a phone call.”

“Right.” John uncrossed his arms, tapping his palms restlessly against his thighs. He looked around the room and nodded as well. “Okay. How do we get there?”

“It’s an hour by bus,” Sherlock said, watching with interest as John pulled on his socks and reached for his boots. “What are you doing?”

Looking up from his laces, John raised a brow. “It’s already one o’clock. If we’re going to make it there by three, we’d better hurry up.”


	14. Go the Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hears Mycroft's strategy for his escape from Morocco, and John tries to plan his own next steps.

The hour-long bus ride to Tangier was a true test of Sherlock’s patience. Now that they had a plan of sorts, now that he knew John was willing to stay with him — even if only until they were both out of Morocco — he was eager to reach the consulate. He was less keen to speak with his brother, with all of Mycroft’s pompous manner, but needs must. It was merely a necessary evil if it meant Sherlock continuing on with his mission.

The closer they drew to Tangier, the harder it became for him to sit still. He grew restless, making John shoot him narrow-eyed looks as Sherlock’s mood no doubt fed his own anxiety.

“If you don’t sit still,” John began, only for Sherlock to cut him off.

“You’ll what?” Sherlock challenged, arching a brow. “Zip tie me to the seat?”

John shot him a shocked look and closed his mouth with a loud click. He looked away with a small frown, leaving Sherlock to feel both vindicated and guilty about the low blow. But it paid off. The rest of the bus ride continued in tense silence, and John didn’t make any further comments on Sherlock’s fidgeting.

As the hour ticked by, Sherlock’s thoughts turned to the issue of John and how to keep him. He was relieved that John had chosen to stay, though Sherlock wasn’t sure how much trust he could place in John’s word. Thus far, he’d proved himself reliable, but the fact that there was potential for an inevitable expiry of their partnership made Sherlock wary. With no set end date, he couldn’t know when John might leave. He might do so without warning when Sherlock needed him most.

He needed certainty — needed to know if John was all in. Sherlock knew he couldn’t truly trust John until he had it. John was his only ally here, and Sherlock needed to know he could rely on him. Without question, without doubt. Without John, he had little to no chance of regaining the upper hand his faked suicide had once afforded. It was John or no one: even Mycroft, with all his bureaucratic power, was no use to Sherlock in the field. Out here, in the thick of it, there was no one else Sherlock could truly trust but himself. And that was no longer enough, as the remnants of his throbbing headache reminded him. Now that Moriarty’s network knew of his continued presence in the world, he’d lost the element of surprise. They’d be near impossible to strike down, close to finished as he was.

Sherlock needed allies, and he was swiftly coming up short in that area.

But there was John. John, who killed with precision and skill. John, who wasn’t afraid of taking the hard way. John, who lived with one foot in the dark, treading the razor-edge between death and survival. John, who had survived what would have felled lesser men.

In a strange, abstract way, Sherlock was beginning to see that he needed that: he needed John. If he wanted to clear his name, wanted to finish his mission and dismantle Moriarty’s web, Sherlock needed someone like John on his side. He needed someone _exactly_ like John.

The question was, how? How did he keep John? How did Sherlock make him see that them staying together, at least into the near future and maybe even indefinitely, was a smarter choice than leaving?

As the bus carried them toward Tangier, Sherlock found he was no closer to finding an answer than when the trip began. The lack of a plan and the uncertainty of the situation drove him into a frenzy. He sat with his forehead against the window, raking his fingers fitfully through his curls until they stuck out in tangles and clumps. The tugging, paired with the vibration of the engine, made his head ring and throb, and he clenched his teeth against the sensation. He needed to move, to pace and march and _move_. Stuck in a seat, caught between John and the window, Sherlock had no choice but to let the bus rattle his brain and shake away the rising energy.

He shoved his fingers into his curls and tugged. The gesture made tears well up in the corners of his eyes, and he winced but pulled again. A swift gasp of pain whistled through his teeth, catching John’s attention.

“Jesus.” His low voice snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts, making Sherlock freeze and clench his fingers tighter. “Stop that, would you? You look like a madman.”

Dropping his hand from his hair, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. He saw that John was frowning at him, and his eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to solve a problem.”

John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he favoured Sherlock with a wary expression. “Do I want to know what that problem is?”

With his eyes squinting half-closed, Sherlock growled, “You.” John’s brows rose, but he didn’t speak, and Sherlock added, _“You_ are the problem.”

To his surprise, John let out a quiet laugh. It was more of a bark, harsh and dismissive, and it made Sherlock clench his jaw. “Not sure I like the idea of you trying to figure me out,” he said, eyeing Sherlock with something Sherlock might have termed wary fondness. It was a disarming expression, and he settled back into his seat with a scowl.

“Tough luck, Captain,” he replied, parroting John’s words from the hotel back at him.

John subsided with an eye roll, and the remainder of their journey passed in silence that was only slightly less tense than before.

By the time they exited the bus in Tangier, Sherlock was no closer to a concrete answer. Short of tying John up and forcing him to stay — something Sherlock wasn’t even sure he could manage — he had nothing to go on.

With any luck, his phone call with Mycroft might provide answers where he had none.

They walked through the city together, Sherlock leading with John a step behind him. He was quiet, and when Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder, he looked to be on high alert. Sherlock knew John was uneasy about the consulate and about being followed. There were other reasons, Sherlock was sure of it, but he wasn’t sure what they were. John was silent and tight-lipped, refusing to give up his inner thoughts. Even so, Sherlock had his suspicions.

They were proven valid when they arrived at the consulate, and John stared up at the building with evident distrust. With his mouth tugged down at the corners in a grimace, he looked unease. Given John’s past, the history of failure enacted upon him by the British government, Sherlock couldn’t begrudge John his evident disquiet.

Before they approached the stairs leading to the consulate, Sherlock turned to him. His sudden movement made John halt, and he stopped a foot away, watching Sherlock with narrowed eyes.

“What is it?”

Sherlock studied his face before he asked, in a quiet voice, “Do you want to wait outside?”

John stiffened. “Should I?” The rigidity of his posture increased, the distrust in his gaze intensifying and now directed toward Sherlock.

“No, I don’t mean…” Sighing, Sherlock shook his head. “It’s clear you don’t want to be here. If you’d rather wait outside, I understand.”

John stared at him. He was silent as an air of stiff hesitation grew and wavered between them. John stood and stared at Sherlock as people moved around them like water around stones, some shooting them curious looks. Largely, they were ignored, which Sherlock was grateful for. He stood perfectly still, refusing to look away from John’s face as Sherlock let him work through his thoughts. 

After a long, speechless moment, John’s eyes rose. They darted over Sherlock’s shoulder, back to the building. Jaw clenching, his fingers flexing at his sides, John shook his head.

“No. It’s fine. I’ll come inside.” His gaze shifted to Sherlock’s face and lingered before darting to the consulate again. “It’s fine,” he repeated, sounding less convinced than before.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, “it will.” He hoped his voice sounded more confident than he felt. Without giving John a chance for further uncertainty, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode toward the entrance. After a moment, he heard John follow.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and John paused again. He stood there with both of their duffles slung over his shoulders, eyeing the second floor with a frown. “Wait,” he said, hand curling tight around the strap of his bag, “I can’t go in there. They’ll have metal detectors. I can’t go in, not with the guns.”

Sherlock paused. He considered John’s words and was forced to admit that he was right. With the two large, bulky bags, and the healing cut on his face, John stuck out like a sore thumb. Even without his luggage, every inch of his tense posture and wary eyes screamed suspect — paired with Sherlock’s bruises and unsteady gait, they’d draw too much attention. Even if they managed not to, they couldn’t hope to hide the firearms. The moment John walked inside, their bags would light up the metal detectors and paint immediate targets on their backs.

“Right.” Sherlock frowned at the building, frustrated that he hadn’t thought of the guns himself. It was an apparent oversight on his part, an obvious sign that he wasn’t on his game. His head still throbbed from the lingering concussion and too little sleep over too many days, and Sherlock felt slow. Without John’s quick thinking, they might have strode right into a jail cell in a foreign country, no one but themselves to blame.

Somehow, Sherlock doubted even Mycroft’s substantial influence could reach them from behind bars.

He looked back at John, who was eyeing the stairs with his lips pursed. John’s gaze shifted to him, and some of the tension in his face eased. Whatever he saw there seemed to soften some of his own weariness. Maybe it was the humanity of Sherlock’s slowed mind or the evidence of his fallacy — or, perhaps, Sherlock was being sentimentally pedantic and should focus on the task at hand.

“I didn’t think about that,” Sherlock admitted. He couldn’t seem to help the apologetic tone in his voice.

To his credit, John didn’t let Sherlock dwell on the lapse. He just nodded and shrugged the bags higher on his shoulders. “Benefit of teamwork, I suppose.” He sounded amused, but the wry edge to his words was strained. “I’ll wait over there.” John pointed at a bench down the road, set outside a shop.

Sherlock glanced toward the bench and frowned. Catching his dubious expression, John sighed.

“If we’re going to work together, then you’re going to have to learn how to trust me at some point.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He still felt a lingering reluctance but managed a stiff nod. “Of course. I do. Trust you, that is.” The statement rang a little false, and Sherlock cleared his throat. He felt uncomfortably flustered, seeking out a way to redirect the moment. “Just… let me get my identification.” Sherlock stepped forward and dug into his bag. John held still, looking at the consulate over Sherlock’s bent head until Sherlock retrieved the appropriate documents and stepped away. Slipping them out of sight in his pocket, he glanced at the bench before looking back at John. “I won’t be long.”

“Alright,” John said briskly. He hesitated only a moment, staring hard at Sherlock until he turned and marched away. His posture was stiff and military-sharp at first, easing seconds later into a casual saunter that helped him blend into the crowd. Despite the heavy bags on his shoulders, the bruises and cuts on his face, John looked like he might be a simple tourist, admiring the views. He kept his pace slow and unhurried, pausing briefly to consult a map he snagged from a brochure rack outside a store. Sherlock watched him sidle through the people on the sidewalk.

He didn’t move until he saw John firmly in place on the bench, and even then, the lingering uncertainty he felt refused to disappear. Sherlock was reluctant to let him out of his sight, worried he might not be there when Sherlock needed him to be. He couldn’t shake the feeling that John wouldn’t still be on the bench when Sherlock returned from the consulate.

But John was right. If they were going to work together from this point on, he needed to learn to trust him. Maybe not without prejudice, but Sherlock could at least make an attempt. If he started now, perhaps it would become instinctive.

Double-checking that his identification was where it should be, Sherlock straightened his shirt, turned his back on John, and mounted the stairs.

* * *

John's anxiety on the bus ride to the consulate was nothing compared to how he felt when he walked away from Sherlock. Leaving him to enter the consulate on his own, unarmed and alone, made John uneasy. It might be an echo from their recent ambush or the way Sherlock still seemed unsteady on his feet.

Whatever it was, it refused to dissipate. Even when John forced himself into the unassuming posture of a casual tourist, the agitation lingered beneath the facade. It pulled his muscles tight and his spine rigid, sending uncomfortable ripples of tension through his body.

Rationally, he knew that Sherlock would probably be fine. John doubted his brother would send Sherlock into a lion’s den, and Sherlock had seemed confident that the emails were from Mycroft. His worries would, most likely, prove to be unfounded.

But still, they lingered.

He tried to release some of the nervous energy in his body by jiggling his foot against the pavement. But the motion was a dead giveaway for his nervousness, a suspicious way of drawing attention, and he forced himself to stop. He reminded himself that he was close enough to react if anything went wrong. At a run, he could gain the bottom of the steps in seconds; reach the top in a few more. He could have his gun in hand and firing before he even cleared the top step if need be.

 _If._ That was the keyword, one John needed to grasp and keep hold of. He had a clear view of the stairs leading inside the consulate, even through the milling people. He was a good shot — a _fantastic_ shot, if he was honest. If anyone entered the consulate who seemed slightly suspicious, John could take them down without breaking a sweat. It wouldn’t do much to keep their low profile if he made his stand here on a crowded street, but John knew he could do it if necessary.

What was harder to understand was the conviction he felt. Because John knew he wouldn’t hesitate if he saw anyone approach the consulate who looked even remotely like they might harm Sherlock. The sheer level of dedication to protecting his former mark struck John as abnormal. But there it was, and he found he couldn’t be bothered to shake it off. To do so would be to go back on his word, to disregard his request that Sherlock trust him.

And John _wanted_ Sherlock to trust him. Ached for it with the same intensity that he ached for a night of proper sleep. His need to keep Sherlock safe, to gain and keep his trust, warred with the exhausted, wary edge of John’s eroding desire for solitude. It wore away at his natural predisposition toward isolation. It forced John to admit that Sherlock had managed what no one else had since Afghanistan: to make himself a priority in the mind of a dangerous, lonely man.

Sherlock had managed to work his way beneath John’s skin. And, after years alone, it seemed that John was changing. By agreeing to stay with Sherlock, he’d rediscovered a fierce loyalty within himself. It wasn’t something John would have thought he was still capable of, but there it was.

And he couldn’t seem to shake it off.

He’d meant to escape on his own before all this. Now, John struggled to fathom how he could bring himself to do so. Even the idea of Bali seemed suddenly unattainable. Undesirable. Staying here, figuring out Sherlock’s next steps, didn’t sound like the risk John had initially identified it as when Sherlock first suggested John accompany him beyond Morocco. Though the decision was still hard to accept, John had made it in a sound mind. Had made his decision and would keep it. He wouldn’t go back now, at least not until they were safely out of Morocco. He’d been afraid of the consulate, imagined he could only be arrested if he stepped foot inside, yet had been set to do so despite his uneasiness.

In the end, he’d been able to avoid his fear with a valid reason, even if sitting just down the street still made him wary.

Perched on the bench and watching people pass by, John realized that, had he analyzed his motives sooner, he might have pinpointed the moment when his internal identity began to shift. Without that awareness, he could only guess at the timeframe. Somewhere along the way, John began to change. Even if it was temporary, John couldn’t help but think the shift had been set in motion the second he first looked into Sherlock’s eyes.

The realization was startling. With it came an uncomfortable potential for vulnerability. Now, John wasn’t only looking out for himself. He was looking out for Sherlock, for both of them, and no longer out of obligation.

Now, the danger at their backs held a double threat: John’s own life, as well as Sherlock’s.

The risk of capture lingered. With Sherlock and his mysterious brother's protection, John’s odds of making it out of the country alive were decidedly improved. As much as John knew he was better off with Sherlock than without, he still couldn’t conceive of remaining with him indefinitely. No matter this new, fierce sense of protectiveness, John would, ultimately, be forced to choose. To choose between his freedom and Sherlock. He would still have to leave. But it was better to wait, to hear out the next part of a plan John had little chance of influencing. Without knowing their next steps, without holding the cards himself, John must wait until the pieces of the puzzle were revealed. Until then, he would stick with Sherlock: do his best to trust him. Once they were out of the country, then John could run. Once Sherlock was safe, out of Morocco and off to wherever his mission might lead him next, John could turn his mind to escape.

His earlier conviction was gone. Now, it was much harder to convince himself that leaving was the right decision. But it had to be. Staying with Sherlock would only lead him back into the United Kingdom, and John had no intention of letting that happen. Still, his mind wondered what it would be like to stick it out. To let Sherlock lead him onward. To follow Sherlock away from his current life and into something new.

John wondered what that might look like. His mind turned in a direction he knew better than to encourage; turned toward bared skin and a shared life. To the familiarity of knowing another down to the bone and letting himself be understood the same way.

“Jesus, Watson,” he muttered, leaning back against the bench and tilting his face upward, “get a hold of yourself. This is only temporary.”

He pushed the idle musings aside with a fierce grimace. Fantasy was all well and good until it became too large to contain within his mind. John couldn’t afford to lose his rational view of the situation.

Sherlock wasn’t his friend: he wasn’t some prospective love interest, a hot fuck in a crowded club. He was a dangerous man, formerly an enemy — an ally only through necessity. He only needed John now because of the danger they shared. When they were out of Morocco, all of that would fall away, and John would no longer serve a purpose in Sherlock’s life.

The thought was a sombre reminder that John would be alone again soon enough. Depending on Sherlock’s phone call with his brother, the ticking clock on their partnership may very well be measured in days, if not hours. John wouldn’t know until Sherlock returned, and he forced himself to relax.

Trying to distract himself, John rubbed a hand over his jaw, still annoyed that he hadn’t yet had a chance to shave. The rough stubble was closer to a beard now, covering the lower half of his face in an itchy red-and-brown growth. He scratched at the growing hair, winced, and dropped his hand.

A beard wasn’t a bad idea. When he was back on his own, looking out for no one but himself again, a beard would go a long way to helping him hide. Beards were common in the area, and John wouldn’t look out of place with one. Better yet, it would change his face and provide some level of anonymity, at least from a distance.

Dragging his nails through the coarse hair, John wondered how long he could go without shaving it before the itchy growth drove him mad. Still, it was an idea that had merit. Maybe, once Sherlock returned and outlined his brother’s plan, John could make a decision.

He’d need all the help he could get once he was back on his own.

* * *

Walking into the consulate without John had Sherlock feeling far too exposed. Without John at his back, he was struck by the need to repeatedly check behind him as he walked through the lobby. Even with the probable safety extended to him by Mycroft’s influence within the consulate, Sherlock couldn't afford to forget that he was not truly on British soil.

He would do well to stay alert.

After only a brief stop at the metal detectors and security, Sherlock strode to the front desk with a confident pace. A middle-aged man sat behind it. His focus was on the computer in front of him, a small frown marring his brow. His skin was white and, when he looked up at Sherlock’s approach, Sherlock’s eyes darted over his face and clothing.

There was a small mustard stain on his collar. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Without waiting for the man to greet him, he glanced at his nameplate and said, “Hello, Mr. Graves. I need to make a phone call." He had a strong feeling the name was fake.

‘Mr. Graves’ narrowed his eyes at Sherlock over his computer. “Our phone isn’t for public use,” he replied, his accent thickly Yorkshire.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I assure you that I am not the public.”

He received a sharp look. Sitting back, the man favoured Sherlock with his full attention. When he spoke, his voice was cautious. “I’m sure any one of the cafes down the road will have a phone, sir. Perhaps one of those will suffice?”

His upper lip curling back, Sherlock bared his teeth. He meant it to be a smile, but judging by Mr. Graves’ widening eyes, it wasn’t even close to friendly. Ignoring the reaction, Sherlock leaned forward and dropped his palms on the counter, lowering his voice once the distance between them disappeared. "They most certainly will not suffice." Mr. Graves leaned back slightly, eyeing Sherlock with unease. Sherlock saw his hand inching toward the edge of his desk. With little doubt that he was reaching for a button to call security, Sherlock said, “My name is Sigerson. If you check your records, I believe I am scheduled for a phone call here at 15:00. Sharp.”

He popped his lips on the _p,_ making the man wince before stiffening in response to Sherlock’s words. Graves’ throat bobbed in a tight swallow. “Sigerson, you said?”

Sherlock nodded. His sharp smile softened into something less feral. “I did. Ringing any bells?”

Mr. Graves pursed his lips, a hint of colour rising in his pale face. “Ah, yes. Actually, sir, I think you’re right.” He moved to stand, hesitated, and flashed Sherlock a wary glance. “Sorry, sir, but may I see your ID?” His expression turned painfully apologetic. “Can’t be too careful, sir.”

“Of course,” Sherlock hummed, pitching his voice into a low, public-school purr. He was familiar with the game being played. Even dressed in simple clothes as he was, with bruises marking his face and a cut on his lip, Sherlock knew how to pull on the persona of upper-class wealth and landed gentry. Posh boy, indeed. Sherlock was just glad that John wasn’t present to witness the moment — he had a feeling he’d never let Sherlock forget it.

Shaking the thought aside and reminding himself to focus, Sherlock held up his index finger. “One moment, please.” He accepted the man’s nod and pulled his passport out of his pocket. Flipping to the identification pages, he handed it over with a stiff smile.

There was a photo with the name Callum Sigerson beneath and a date of birth different from Sherlock's. Thankful that the alias wasn’t one that required him to wear contacts or change his accent, Sherlock waited as Mr. Graves studied the documentation, checked something on his computer, and handed it back with a nod.

“Everything looks to be in order, Mr. Sigerson. My apologies for the delay.” Graves’ teeth flashed in a quick, tense smile, and he gestured to a hallway off the main lobby. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll see you to an office where you may take your call.”

Sherlock accepted the passport and returned it to his pocket before refocusing on the man. “Much obliged.”

“Of course, sir.” Another terse smile, there and gone. “If you’ll follow me.”

Sherlock nodded and moved to do so, but not before he paused and glanced at the entrance. Though he had no chance of seeing John from his vantage point down the street, Sherlock checked all the same. He felt a brief flicker of doubt and hoped John would still be waiting for him just as he’d said he would be.

“Are you coming, Mister Sigerson?”

Mr. Graves’ words pulled Sherlock from his hesitation. “Yes. My apologies.” Taking a moment to shake off the uneasy feeling and reminding himself to trust John just as he’d asked John to trust him, Sherlock turned and followed the man down the indicated hallway.

He showed Sherlock into a small office. “Here you are, sir. I hope the space will suffice.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied in an apparent dismissal.

“Happy to hear, sir,” Graves said, sounding anything but. With one last nod, he left, the door creaking behind him when it closed.

Sherlock looked around the room with disinterest. It was drab and utilitarian. The space was hardly more than a glorified closet, and he huffed in annoyance at the cramped area. After the small hotel rooms, the narrow, too short beds, Sherlock ached for space. With any luck, Mycroft would soon be able to provide far better accommodations than he’d been reliant on as of late. Maybe, with a top-up to his spending funds, he and John wouldn’t be forced to share a room again.

An odd disappointment accompanied the consideration, and Sherlock pushed it away at once. It wouldn’t do to focus on such thoughts. Not now, when he had a task to complete. Perhaps later, if at all. Sherlock abhorred sentiment at the best of times, but the idea behind his idle thought might deserve consideration.

With the thought of shared hotel beds banished for the moment, Sherlock sank into a hard wooden chair. The stiff back dug into his shoulders, making him squirm as Sherlock stared at the phone on the desk. He eyed it without blinking, settled and waiting. After thirty seconds passed, each tick of passing time counted out, Sherlock’s eyes darted to the clock on the wall. It was two minutes to three. Hands settled flat on the desk, Sherlock drummed his fingers against the fake wooden surface. Eyes turning back on the phone, he continued to wait.

The remainder of the minute passed by, painfully endless, the one after just as long. Sherlock had never been an exceptionally patient man, and the waiting was unbearable. With the idea of John abandoning him while he was otherwise preoccupied lingering in his thoughts, Sherlock clenched his jaw and stared harder at the landline. The clock ticked over to three o’clock. Sherlock stiffened. He narrowed his eyes, willing the phone to ring.

It remained silent.

“Come on, Mycroft,” he muttered, digging his nails against his thigh. “You’re always so insufferably on time for everything, don’t slip up now.” His brother was punctual to a fault and had been his entire life. It had irked Sherlock over the years, and it filled him with buzzing frustration now that Mycroft appeared to be late.

The clock dragged to one minute past, and the phone rang. Jumping at the sudden noise in the shattered silence, Sherlock seized the receiver. Before the speaker even connected with his ear, he was snapping, “You were almost a full minute late, Mycroft. You’re slipping.”

The reply was crisp and curt, “Almost a full minute, brother mine. Do please stop being so dramatic.”

“That’s what I said,” Sherlock managed through his teeth. As always, his brother’s voice had him immediately on the edge of a full-blown strop. Even in the dire situation in which he found himself, Sherlock couldn’t resist the urge to poke the proverbial bear. “What kept you, Mycroft?” he sneered, lips curling in a spiteful little smirk. “Did you indulge in too many carbs and fall asleep at your desk again?”

Mycroft sighed in his ear. Sherlock could imagine the accompanying eye roll with ease. “As charming as your little comments are, Sherlock, I thought you were in danger. Now hardly seems the time for your sniping.” Mycroft’s voice turned simpering. “Or is this not really an emergency?” Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft perking up with interest on the other end, one brow no doubt rising in a display of sardonic amusement. “Could it be that you missed me?”

Sherlock scowled. “Are pigs flying?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” came the blasé response.

“Hmm.” Sherlock tapped a finger to his bottom lip, letting the hum draw out. “Then, I think, _no.”_

Mycroft sighed again. “A pity.” When he next spoke, his voice was clipped. Right to the point, just like always. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened, and he drummed his fingers against the desk. “I’ve been compromised.” Before he could elaborate, his brother interrupted.

“Clearly.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and prayed for a level of patience he knew was impossible. His jaw clenched tighter, hard enough that he heard a little pop at the hinge. “Are you going to let me explain or not?”

Mycroft’s amused smirk was almost audible. “Of course, dear brother.” He turned serious once more. “Please, start from the beginning.”

Eyes still closed, fingers still restlessly tapping out the cadence of a favoured violin composition, Sherlock gathered his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his fingers stilled. “I can’t be certain of the exact moment, but Moriarty’s people must have realized I was the one taking out their high-ranking members. I don’t know if it happened before Morocco, but they knew enough to find me here. They sent someone after me.”

“A hitman?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked at the far wall. “Something like that.” At his brother’s pensive silence, he conceded, “A mercenary.”

“Did you kill him?” The question was sharp.

Sherlock squinted down at his hands, choosing his words with care. “No. It’s… complicated.” He cleared his throat. “I won’t get into it now.”

A tense silence followed. Shifting in his seat, Sherlock waited for his brother’s reply. He gnawed on his lower lip until Mycroft snapped, “Stop that. I hate it when you chew your lip. The sound is disgusting.”

Sherlock stopped with a scowl. His hands clenched tightly together until the knuckles went white, but he held his tongue.

“Go on,” Mycroft said once he’d quit.

“I escaped what would have been my pick-up and, likely, summary execution,” Sherlock continued. He scraped at a strip of peeling varnish on the edge of the desk. “I fled and was followed to Nador. I managed to escape again but had no choice but to travel back to Tétouan and retrieve my belongings. We were ambushed by two men but managed to escape.”

“We?”

Sherlock winced, cursing himself for the slip. “Yes.” He hesitated, frowning at his hands on the desk. “I am no longer travelling on my own.”

“Sherlock, who—” Mycroft’s voice cut off, the sudden silence making Sherlock’s body tense with anxiety. He imagined that he could hear the gears turning in Mycroft’s mind as his brother put the pieces together. Mycroft had always been the smarter out of the two of them. He was quicker than Sherlock and now was no different.

“The mercenary.” It was a statement. Mycroft wasn’t seeking clarification; he was confident of the answer. “Sherlock, what have you done?”

Eyes still on his hands, Sherlock quietly replied, “I need him.”

“You can’t trust a mercenary, Sherlock!” Mycroft’s rebuke was severe, and Sherlock bristled. His hand curled into a tight fist, nails pressing hard into his palm.

“He saved my life,” he snapped, pushing the words through his teeth, “and not just once.” Forcing his tone to soften, Sherlock aimed for a different tactic. “I can’t do this on my own, Mycroft. Not anymore, not now they’ve realized I’m alive. It was possible before when I had the element of surprise. But now they know I’m here. They know what I look like, know my aliases. If I try to finish this alone, I won’t succeed.” Closing his eyes, his voice quieted, grew earnest as he tried to make his brother see the logic in his decisions. “I need to finish what I’ve started. Otherwise, I can never return to London. And Joh — the mercenary,” Sherlock cursed himself again at the second slip, “he’s the key to my success.”

“So, you’re using him, then?”

Sherlock winced at the hard statement. Not because it was incorrect, but because it was closer to the truth than he cared to admit. Yes, he was using John, just as he’d used countless others to reach his goals. But even with the reality of that admission, it wasn’t just that. He needed John, yes, but Sherlock also wanted him.

It was entirely different, and Sherlock refused to explain that to his brother. Not now, when Mycroft was already uneasy about Sherlock’s choice of alliance.

His breath hissing out in a ragged sigh, Sherlock said, “Yes.” The lie slipped easily from his lips, believable and far too casual. He wasn’t stupid enough to think Mycroft actually believed it but hoped his brother might give him the benefit of the doubt.

Mycroft’s silence was deafening. He was quiet for so long that, if not for the subtle crackle of distance over the line, Sherlock might have thought the call had disconnected.

When he could bear it no longer, he said, “Mycroft. _Trust me.”_ A sigh answered his words. The sound of it made Sherlock grin. His shoulders dropped, the tension easing from his rigid spine as he realized he’d prevailed. “Thank you.”

Mycroft’s reply sounded like it emerged from a clenched jaw. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Sherlock.”

“I do.” Sherlock lied. He unfolded his fingers carefully, grimacing at the indentations left in his palm by his nails. He hadn’t broken the skin, but the marks still stung. “For the record, I trust him.”

He heard the creak of a chair as Mycroft shifted. “I don’t think you need me to tell you how moronic that is.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock agreed in a harsh voice. “Now — tell me how to get out of Morocco.”

“Of course.” A low sigh echoed through the line, and Sherlock listened to the brief rustling of papers before Mycroft spoke again. “There is a ferry from Tanger Med to Gibraltar. Take it. I have a safe house in Gibraltar where you can regroup.” Mycroft paused. “Will you be…” he cleared his throat and started again. “Will the mercenary be accompanying you?”

Sherlock gripped the phone tighter, knuckles turning white around the receiver. “Yes.” He willed the slight waver out of his tone. “He will.”

“Again, Sherlock: I hope you know what you’re doing. If your trust is misplaced…”

Sherlock interrupted in a firm voice, “It’s not.”

He heard Mycroft’s incredulous huff.

“Sherlock, I cannot guarantee your safety until you are back on British soil.”

“I’m well aware,” Sherlock snapped, piqued by his brother’s lack of faith in who Sherlock chose to trust. “Just get us to the safehouse and leave the rest to me, Mycroft.”

His brother made a frustrated noise but conceded. After years of battling with Sherlock, he knew when a fight was pointless. Sherlock had been counting on that fact and was relieved to find the old patterns repeated now.

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed, worn down by Sherlock’s unwavering conviction. “I’ll have one of my aides call ahead to make sure there aren’t any issues with the border crossing. You’ll have to get to the ferry on your own, but I will have a car waiting for you on the other side. It will take you — both of you — to the safe house.” Mycroft’s voice turned hard. “But, if this man is going to accompany you, then I reserve the right to look into him.”

“Do what you like,” Sherlock said, still riding the high of besting his brother. “It makes no difference to me.” John might have a different view, but Sherlock would cross that bridge when it came. Listening to his brother’s breathing on the other end of the line, Sherlock cleared his throat and added, “And… thank you, Mycroft.” He received silence and shrugged.

When Sherlock moved to hang up, Mycroft spoke again. Sherlock paused, pressing the phone to his ear again.

“Sherlock?"

“Yes, Mycroft?”

A brief pause, followed by a quiet sigh. "Do be careful.”

The sentimental statement caught Sherlock off guard. It made him uncomfortable, and he squirmed in his chair. This wasn’t their dynamic, this soft, caring lark between brothers, and he closed himself against it.

Upper lip curling back, Sherlock snapped, “Careful is boring, Mycroft,” and hung up the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that some of these chapters move so slowly. There's so much to establish before this story and its sequel can really get moving. We'll get there eventually! 
> 
> Happy 2021!


	15. Uneasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John plans his next move. Sherlock keeps crucial information to himself.

John scanned the cliques of people passing by his bench. He paused and narrowed his eyes, spotting Sherlock from the edge of his vision as he emerged from the stairwell of the consulate. Keeping his eyes forward, John rubbed an absent hand over his jaw, scratching at his chin and pretending not to notice Sherlock’s approach. It wouldn’t do to draw too much attention to Sherlock before he was safely back at John’s side.

Sherlock dropped onto the bench next to him and crossed his legs at the knee. He did so with casual ease, slinging his arms over the backrest. His fingers brushed John’s shoulder in a fleeting touch before he curled them in toward his palms.

John glanced his way, but Sherlock was looking at the people walking past. He didn’t seem to notice the fleeting contact. To John, it felt like a brand. With the heat still fading from his skin, John cleared his throat and asked, “Did you speak to your brother?”

Sherlock’s eyes remained on the passersby. “I did.” Hands folded in his lap, he pursed his lips. One of his feet jiggled with restless energy, and John sensed he was holding something back.

He frowned and prompted, “And?”

Sherlock tipped his head to the side. He eyed John with a slight wariness. “He has a plan,” he said evasively.

Arms stretched out before him, John rubbed his palms over his thighs. His frown remained. “Is trying to get a straight answer from you always going to be like this?”

“Like what?” Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. He was being purposefully cagey. John didn’t appreciate it, and he sighed.

“Like pulling teeth.” He caught Sherlock’s amused little smile from the edge of his vision and suppressed his own.

“Probably.”

Another sigh from John. “Fantastic.” Tapping his hands against his thighs, he leaned forward and frowned at the ground. “So… what’s the plan, then?”

Sherlock waved a hand, fingers flicking as if their conversation contained nothing of importance. “Leaving Morocco.”

John shot him a glare. “Could have guessed that much for myself, thanks.” Straightening, he sat back and studied Sherlock’s face in profile. Sherlock continued to stare straight ahead, avoiding his direct gaze. His evasion made John uneasy. The sensation shifted into suspicion the longer Sherlock refused to explain. “You don’t want to tell me,” John said slowly. He watched Sherlock’s fingers knit together in a tense grip in his lap, and his shoulders rose as tension sang throughout his body. “Why don’t you want to tell me the plan?”

Sherlock finally looked his way. His face was hard to read, his eyes cautious. “What makes you think I don’t want to tell you?” he asked. His tone was carefully level, and John could hear the control in his words. It only increased his disquiet.

Squinting, he searched Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock,” John prompted, a hint of warning creeping into his voice, “what is your brother’s plan?”

Sherlock winced and pursed his lips before replying, “A ferry. To Gibraltar.”

John stiffened. “Gibraltar,” he repeated. He drew the word out, weighing it on his tongue, testing the flavour. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. “But Gibraltar is—”

“A British territory,” Sherlock interrupted with a nod. “Yes, it is.” He turned and fixed John with a sharp stare. It felt like being pinned in place, and John didn’t appreciate the sensation. He frowned as Sherlock added, “I don’t imagine you’re too keen to step back onto British soil.”

John narrowed his eyes, teeth clamping together as his back went rigid. How could Sherlock know that? Was John _that_ obvious? He opened his mouth to ask, but Sherlock beat him to the punch. He answered John’s question before he even had the chance to give voice to it.

“It’s obvious.” Sherlock’s tone was deceptively smooth, unperturbed. Only his hands, still clasped in a tight grip within his lap, betrayed his nerves. “You’ve been a mercenary for, what? Two years or so?”

The way Sherlock laid out his past with such ease made John jolt with surprise. He nodded jerkily in agreement, and Sherlock continued. He looked almost pleased with himself. 

“You’re smart enough to realize that the British government likely knows of your career. It stands to reason they may have marked you a liability.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked with a brief flicker of dark amusement. “After all, you _were_ a soldier, and one injured in a criminal event within your own ranks. It’s unlikely they’d let you just disappear without at least attempting to keep tabs on your doings.” He shrugged, waving a hand as if the simple gesture could dismiss the severity of the situation.

John sat statue-still, letting the words wash over him as Sherlock voiced his worst fears.

But Sherlock, it seemed, wasn’t quite finished. “It’s only logical that you’d worry about what might happen if you set foot within British jurisdiction. Hence, your reluctance to enter the consulate.” Sherlock favoured John with an evaluating glance, his sharp gaze raking over his tense face. “Am I wrong?”

John shook his head. With his eyes fixed on his hands where they still rested in his lap, he muttered, “No. You’re right. About all of it.” He chanced a glance, saw that Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised again, and dropped his gaze. “It does make me uneasy, you’re right. And it should. I’ve already been betrayed by my country once, and I don’t see what could possibly keep it from happening again.” John pulled in an unsteady breath and frowned. “And, while I do want to leave Morocco, I don’t see how walking from one lion’s den into another will put me in a better place than I am now.”

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as it were,” Sherlock mused. He sounded frustratingly unbothered by the situation. John figured he could afford not to be perturbed by the possibility of John’s arrest. If they travelled together to Gibraltar, Sherlock would be welcomed with open arms by his brother, while John might very well be led away in cuffs or shot on sight. But Sherlock would have what he wanted: he’d be out of Morocco and protected. He wouldn’t need John anymore. He was under no obligation to protect John. Why would he need to worry about John’s fate?

As if picking John’s thoughts right from his mind, Sherlock turned toward him. His hand lifted and hovered between them. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to John’s left shoulder and back to his face. After a moment, his hand dropped, and he cleared his throat. “I won’t let anything happen to you, John.”

Lips pressed into a thin line, John shook his head. “You don’t have any reason to protect me, Sherlock.” He hesitated before adding, “And I have no reason to believe that you would.”

Sherlock’s expression looked pained. “I need you to trust me, John,” he said quietly.

John eyed him with evident doubt. Rubbing his hands along his thighs, he shook his head.“You keep asking me to do that.”

Sherlock stared hard at his face. His reply was fervent. “Have I given you a reason to stop?”

It was a fair point. Looking away and clenching his hands into fists, John frowned. He saw a family crossing the street, going about their day seemingly without care. A little boy skipped ahead of his parents, his young face lit up by a bright smile. They looked carefree, happy and at peace with the world.

It wasn’t something John could relate to. He watched them for a moment before turning back to Sherlock. “No,” he said, the word dropping reluctantly from his lips. “No, you haven’t.”

Sherlock favoured him with a small smile. “Then trust me when I say that no harm will come to you in Gibraltar.”

His doubts still lingering, John pursed his lips. Instead of responding, he looked away again. He knew if he answered, what he had to say wasn’t what Sherlock wanted to hear. Still, it needed to be said. But John found he couldn’t just open his mouth and give voice to his thoughts: _I can’t. I can’t trust you like that, please don’t ask me to._

Sherlock seemed to hear the unspoken words in his silence, and he narrowed his eyes. “John,” he urged. “ _Trust me_. You did before, yes?” John offered a grudging nod, still not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “And did I betray you?” A small headshake. Despite John’s reticence, a small, encouraging smile crept over Sherlock’s lips. He reached out again. Unlike earlier, this time there was no hint of hesitation. His hand landed on John’s arm with a firm grip.

John started at the contact and finally looked up. Sherlock caught and held his gaze. “One more time, John,” he said, earnest and fierce. “Just once more. Trust me.”

Listening to the thud of his pulse in his ears, John stared at him. Even in the face of Sherlock’s intensity, John hesitated. He’d gotten by for so long without compromising himself by trusting the wrong people. He’d vowed to rely on himself and no one else after Afghanistan. Sherlock was asking him to turn his back on everything that had kept John safe since that terrible night in the desert. It was a monumental ask, and John battled against the urge to refuse. His body buzzed with the instinctive need to escape, and he considered simply rising to his feet and walking away. Turning his back on Sherlock and finding his own way, the Colonel and his men be damned.

But the more rational side of John’s mind, the one that told him Sherlock was his best chance, was far louder. John remained, forced himself to listen. Still, he didn’t speak, and Sherlock’s brow furrowed. 

“John,” he urged, “please.” He was relentless, wearing John down with his tenacity.

It took another moment of his mind warring with his instincts before John nodded. “Alright,” he said quietly.

Sherlock grinned, immediately pleased by John’s response. To John, the moment seemed to mirror their first vowed alliance. Then, they’d been pinned down by a sniper in the desert, forced together by necessity. Now, they were sitting on a bench with people moving past them, going about their lives. There was no threat here, at least none that John could see. There was no immediate danger to unify them. The largest risk here was Sherlock himself, but John found he was taking that leap again. This time, the only protection he had was Sherlock’s word. It didn’t seem like it could possibly be enough, but John tilted his head in another curt nod.

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Good, John,” he breathed, his grin fading into a calmer smile. “That’s very good.” Sherlock stood, weaving momentarily as the abrupt motion seemed to trigger a spell of vertigo.

John winced in sympathy. Sherlock’s head injury was still fresh, and it wasn’t his first. John knew Sherlock needed sleep, but instead of resting, he was working to find safety. For both of them. For John.

Sherlock’s hand was still on John’s shoulder. It lingered until Sherlock found his balance and dropped his arm back at his side. “Let’s go.”

John stood. He pulled both bags over his shoulders and frowned. “Where are we going?”

Sherlock flashed him an encouraging smile. He still looked a little scattered, and John thought he could see a twinge of pain in the creases around Sherlock’s mouth.

“Tanger Med. We have a ferry to catch.”

* * *

Compared to his restless energy on their earlier bus ride, Sherlock felt far more settled during the cab ride to Tanger Med. He was no longer possessed by the urge to fidget and rake his fingers through his hair. Sherlock would almost have considered himself calm if he didn’t now feel the need to keep a close eye on John. He had the uneasy feeling that John was still stewing over the risk of returning to British soil. He was staring straight ahead with a furrowed brow, tension radiating through his stiff posture. His face, marred by the healing cuts and bruises on his face and half-obscured by thick stubble growth, was pensive.

Despite his reassurances and earnest request for John’s continued trust, Sherlock was no fool. He was well aware of John’s trust issues. He couldn’t help but feel wary, knowing John’s past as he did. John had a good reason for his reluctance to take Sherlock at his word, and Sherlock had little faith in John’s ability to truly trust in him after a lifetime of betrayals. Winning John’s permanent trust would take far more than the work Sherlock had already put in. It would take him proving his merit through actions, not just words. And that meant keeping John close. Keeping him long enough to give Sherlock the chance to prove to John that he wouldn’t turn his back on him as so many others had.

If Sherlock could convince John that he could be trusted, John might choose to stay on his own.

The necessity of keeping John came with its own set of risks. John could turn his back on Sherlock at any time. He could flee the moment they escaped Morocco. Sherlock would have little hope of stopping him if John took it into his head to leave. Sherlock needed to prepare himself for the possibility.

For a brief moment, he was almost grateful for his brother's involvement. While Sherlock might not be able to keep John from doing a runner, Mycroft would have no such issue. Sherlock knew his brother well enough to admit that Mycroft wouldn’t just let John go. He would want to know the man who had gone from Sherlock’s enemy to ally in so short a time. The realization brought with it a pang of quiet, gnawing guilt that Sherlock struggled to force back.

He needed John. Mycroft would help him keep John. It was logical, using one’s connections as one saw fit. But the idea of using John only worsened his guilt, and Sherlock closed his eyes with a sigh. His head was hurting again, the dull hum of background pain increasing the longer he dwelled on the situation. He worked to clear his mind, hoping the pain might abate. He let the sounds around him fade away, slipping inward as he sought relief.

It was several minutes after the car came to a stop that he realized they’d arrived. Sherlock shook his head and blinked, refocusing on the present. The cab had pulled up to a curb, and John was handing their drive a handful of colourful notes.

He glanced at Sherlock, a brief flicker of concern darkening his eyes. “You alright?”

Sherlock blinked again before nodding. The gesture was stiff, careful not to exacerbate the rising din within his skull. He watched John grab their bags and slide out, and followed after. The cab pulled away, leaving them to approach the ferry terminal on foot.

Sherlock saw John eyeing the security personnel when they entered the building and crossed through the vestibule. He leaned toward Sherlock and dropped his voice. “Are the guns going to be an issue here?”

There was an edge to his words, and Sherlock shook his head. The gesture made his headache worse. Teeth gritted against the pain, he said, “No. Mycroft said he would ensure our safe passage.” Sherlock was also watching the security workers, and he offered a small smile when one man looked their way.

John frowned, brows drawing down as his face darkened. He didn’t look comforted. Sherlock couldn’t blame him for his suspicions. “Guess we’ll see how that goes,” he finally said.

They reached the customs agent. John moved forward, but the man held up a hand and glanced at the duffle bags slung over his shoulders with a suspicious gaze. John stiffened. Before he could get it in his head to flee, Sherlock sidled closer and leaned toward the man.

“Hello,” he said in the same smooth, upper-class voice he’d used at the consulate. “My name is Sigerson. Callum Sigerson. I believe there may have been a message left here for me?” Sherlock flashed a smile, trying to ignore the pain throbbing through his skull. It seemed his headache was fully awake and out for blood. He resisted the urge to wince and held the man’s gaze.

The man’s eyes widened. They darted to John then back to Sherlock, evaluating. Sherlock felt John staring at the side of his face, no doubt startled by the posh tone. Sherlock would never live down the future teasing, but needs must. He ignored the scrutiny, keeping his focus on the man. He was rewarded with a small nod.

“Yes, of course,” the man said, offering his own smile. “Welcome, Mister Sigerson.” He drew a set of keys out of his pocket. Unlocking a drawer in the desk next to him, he pulled out a slip of paper before relocating it and tucking the keys back out of sight. He slid a folded paper across the desk, holding Sherlock’s gaze. “No need to go through customs, Mister Sigerson. Your tickets have been pre-purchased, and I’ve been assured that you are to proceed forward onto the next sailing without delay.” He lifted a hand and waved one of the security guards forward. John tensed, but the man added, “Rachid will escort you to the boat.”

John relaxed, though Sherlock could still feel the tension rolling off him in waves. John eyed the approaching guard with a wary gaze, his smile small and uneasy when Rachid stopped before them and tilted his head in greeting.

Silently urging John to keep his cool, Sherlock flashed a bright smile. “Wonderful,” he said, subtly bumping John’s hip with his own and shooting him a quick glance. “I appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

“Certainly, Mister Sigerson.” The man nudged the folded paper closer, one eyebrow raised. Sherlock slipped the sheet off the desk and into his palm. “If you’ll please follow Rachid, he will make sure you do not miss your sailing.”

Sherlock thanked the man and nudged John aside. John shot him a terse look but didn’t comment despite his evident desire to. They turned and followed the security guard through the terminal in solemn silence, John's expression pensive. Rachid walked a few paces in front of them. His stride was stiff and formal, his arms swinging slowly at his sides.

He wore a gun on one hip, and Sherlock eyed it before focusing on John. He was still tense, his own pace military stiff. Sherlock sidled closer and murmured, “Relax.” He saw John’s jaw clench and dropped his voice even lower. “Come now, John. You can do better than that.” Sherlock’s statement earned him a glare, but John forcibly relaxed his posture. Sherlock heard a quiet mutter, caught the word _git_ , and smirked.

With the easy camaraderie came a lapse in Sherlock’s careful composure, and he winced as the perpetual throb of his headache rose by a notch. He sighed and rubbed at his temples, ignoring John’s concerned expression. “Call me whatever you’d like, John,” Sherlock said, dropping his hands back to his sides with a grimace. “Just so long as you continue to trust me as we agreed.”

John heaved a sigh. His lips twisted in a bitter expression. “I said I would, didn’t I?” Shifting the bags higher on his shoulders, he shot Sherlock a frustrated look and pursed his lips. “Maybe it’s _you_ who needs to trust _me.”_

Jaw clenched, Sherlock huffed. He smoothed his face into an unbothered facade and lifted a shoulder in a slow shrug. “I never said that I didn’t trust you, John.”

John’s mouth opened before he seemed to think better of speaking and closed it with a click. They lapsed into silence. The security guard, Rachid, led them forward. He seemed either unaware of or unperturbed by the tension radiating from the men behind him.

The silence continued as they were dismissed on the ferry, and Sherlock finally glanced at John. What he saw there, the slight frown between his brows, the lines around the edges of his mouth, wasn’t a comfort. Despite Sherlock’s assurance that he would keep John safe, Sherlock wondered if he wouldn’t soon be proven a liar.

For his sake — and Mycroft’s — Sherlock hoped his vow would last. If they finally escaped Morocco, only for John to be arrested by his own government, Sherlock would be forced to absorb the loss. He’d lose not only what tenuous trust he’d managed to gain between himself and John, but his potential ally. There would be no way for Sherlock to convince John to work with him if Mycroft hauled him off into custody the second they stepped foot off the ferry.

Unless… unless that was the best way to keep him. If John had it in his head to run, there was little Sherlock could do to stop him. He didn’t have the tools, the promises, to keep John from disappearing if he chose to. But Mycroft had the means — and the lack of mercy — to make John stay. But at what cost? Could Sherlock gain John just to lose him later? Was it worth the risk?

Following John through into a sitting area, Sherlock stared at his back and thought it might be. But he had no way to reach Mycroft now. No way to ask for his support. He was on his own.

Or was he? The note from Mycroft tickled his palm, reminding Sherlock of the unread message.

John took a seat. He set the duffle bags at his feet, and Sherlock dropped into the chair next to him. While John was studying the other passengers seated nearby, Sherlock unfolded the paper from the custom’s agent. The message within was short and to the point.

> _Your companion is a flight risk._
> 
> _I do not plan to let him disappear._
> 
> _Be prepared, brother._
> 
> _-M.H._

Sherlock stared at the message. He let the words burn into his brain, forcing the headache back as he memorized each letter. The sight of them cranked his guilt up another notch even as they filled him with an uneasy relief.

Mycroft was aware of John’s past, then. He’d no doubt figured out John’s real name and read his files. As Sherlock predicted, his brother wasn’t about to let John fade away the moment they docked in Gibraltar.

Knowing what awaited John at the end of their voyage made Sherlock uneasy. He’d asked John to trust him, and this, Mycroft’s message, felt very much like betraying him. If Sherlock told him what Mycroft planned, would John listen? Would he take Sherlock’s word that no harm would come to him if he came along to the safe house?

He looked at John. Studying his tense posture, the suspicious dart of his eyes over the other passengers, Sherlock couldn’t be certain. If he did tell John, he risked the chance of John expecting the interference. He was a dangerous man, willing to use violence if he deemed it necessary. He wouldn’t come quietly if he decided not to. There was no telling how many men Mycroft might send, but Sherlock doubted it would be a fair fight. John might very well end up injured. Or worse, shot dead for failing to back down.

After not even three full days spent in each other’s company, Sherlock couldn’t be sure of John’s loyalty to him. John had stated, time and again, that he didn’t trust easily. That he preferred to work on his own. They were only still together because it was the best chance for John to escape Morocco. Once they reached Gibraltar, no amount of pleading or manipulation on Sherlock’s part would keep John with him if John decided he wanted to leave. He saw that now. Mycroft’s message, his reinforcement of what Sherlock already suspected, solidified that fear. John _would_ run. It was an irrefutable fact that he would, and Sherlock felt another flicker of relief knowing Mycroft wouldn’t let him. With the feeling came more guilt, his head throbbing with the stress of it.

He couldn’t tell John the plan, he decided. If he did, John may very well doom himself before Sherlock had a chance to explain why he needed him. Even if the guilt of keeping Mycroft’s plan to himself burned an ulcer through Sherlock’s stomach, he would keep it. He rationalized that the decision was the right one, made with John’s safety in mind.

Sherlock found he could almost believe it if he tried hard enough. Almost.

He folded the paper into a small, neat square and shoved it into his pocket. Hands steepled together beneath his chin, he closed his eyes and waited for the pain to ease.

* * *

This was it. Sherlock’s return to British soil had arrived, far earlier than John could have anticipated. The reality of the situation drastically moved up John’s escape timeline. He’d thought it might be months before he was forced to make such a split-second decision about their partnership. Now, it seemed he would have to react far sooner than planned. To have to make that choice now, to have it foisted upon him without warning, felt like a cruel joke.

Just hours after agreeing to work with Sherlock, John was already planning to break his word. Even if he’d spent the past few years as a man loyal to no one but himself, John was reluctant to break his vow so soon.

But needs must. John had his own promises to keep, promises made to himself in the aftermath of unlikely survival. They were crucial vows, ones that kept him safe. Kept John alive. He’d told himself he wouldn’t follow Sherlock back onto British soil, and he’d meant it. Accompanying him to the consulate had been far too close to breaking his own rules. John had to draw the line somewhere, and here was the time for it. He’d told Sherlock he would stay as long as it took to escape Morocco. John had no obligation to remain past the moment they docked in Gibraltar. Sherlock knew this. John had been clear.

Still, it was difficult to actually imagine leaving. There was always that reluctance to actually go, lingering like a bitter taste in John's mouth.

From the moment he dropped into his seat, John felt uneasy. The sensation remained through the rumble of the engines and the safety announcements. He glanced at Sherlock, saw his face was tight with pain, and felt his reluctance grow.

John forced the feeling back. He folded his hands in his lap and sank deeper into a perturbed reverie as the ferry struck out into the Strait of Gibraltar. His eyes dropped to their bags.

Their firearms rested inside the duffles set between John’s spread feet. Staring at them, John felt the absence of his Sig like a missing limb. In his agitated state, he ached to have it in his hand; ached for its steady, familiar comfort. John was far too aware of its absence, the sensation feeding his anxiety. It wasn’t long before he began to fidget, bouncing a leg when the rising tension grew too large to contain in stillness.

A sigh rushing out through his teeth, Sherlock shot him an annoyed glare. “Sit still,” he hissed. John ignored him, his leg continuing its jiggling bounce, and Sherlock huffed. He reached out and dropped his hand on John’s knee. _“Stop.”_

The unexpectedness of the gesture made John jolt. His head swivelled toward Sherlock, and his leg fell still.

“Thank god,” Sherlock muttered. A frown creased his forehead, and he stiffened as he seemed to realize what he’d done. His hand lingered, his eyes on his fingers where they gripped John’s knee. John, still frozen, stared at his impassive face until Sherlock’s cheeks flared with colour. His eyes shifted away, and he released John’s knee. His hand landed back in his own lap as Sherlock cleared his throat. Some of the flush in his face faded, though twin spots of colour lingered high on his cheekbones.

Still startled by the contact, John released a quick breath. Some of the shock melted away with the exhale, enough to let him consider the unexpected moment. He felt Sherlock looking at him, and John favoured him with a long, amused look. Sherlock stared back at him with pursed lips before looking away.

Maybe John wasn’t the only one feeling some semblance of attraction within their dynamic. Though John knew precious little about Sherlock’s views on relationships, he was glad for the man’s show of restraint. John’s own dry spell stretched out behind him, a vivid reminder of how just long it had been since John felt the intimate touch of another human being.

Hands clasped, John looked at the other passengers. His gaze unfocused, his mind wandering. With a determined end-date on their still-fresh partnership, John couldn’t allow himself to slip now. Sherlock was demonstrating a restraint that John himself needed to echo, now more than ever. This close to leaving, John needed to keep his head. He would continue to keep his distance and, once the ferry docked in Gibraltar, he would slip away. It would have been easier if he'd fled in Tangier while Sherlock slept, but John knew he could still do it. Now, he had no choice. And it would be easy. There would be the rush of passengers disembarking the ferry. John could disappear into the flow before Sherlock even realized he was gone.

The simple relief of a concrete plan eased some of John’s disquiet. Never mind that he’d failed to keep to any of his previous plots, it still helped to have one now. This time, he would follow through. He had little choice in the matter, now that they would be on British soil once the ferry docked. It didn’t matter that Gibraltar was a British overseas territory. John was still unnerved by the fact that he’d soon be back within the Commonwealth.

He would to well to show restraint and keep his distance. It would make his disappearance that much easier. Sherlock would be back under the protection of his brother, and John could leave with a clear conscience. He would travel into Spain, keep moving until he had an entire country between himself and Gibraltar. Between himself and Sherlock, with his powerful, dangerous brother. John could travel through France, into Germany. From there, he could go anywhere. Maybe he could still go to Bali.

Or maybe not. If Sherlock decided John was worth pursuing, he’d remember John mentioning Bali. Though John doubted Sherlock would bother to track him down, the possibility couldn’t be ignored. John was too meticulous to overlook the chance, and Bali was a known location.

 _Maybe Finland,_ John thought. He stared at the empty seat across from him with unfocused eyes. Helsinki could be interesting. He’d never been. Why not go now? Maybe the betrayal of his employers was a blessing in disguise, a chance to explore the world on his own terms.

John found himself thinking he would have preferred a blessing that involved less torture. The thought brought a wry smile to his face, and he schooled it away before Sherlock noticed. He seemed lost in his own head, his eyes closed with pain radiating through his expression.

Refocusing, John began to plot his next steps. He should acquire a new passport and identity. It shouldn’t be impossible to do, even if his employers had their fingers busy in most of the fraud-based operations. Though he’d learned how to disappear from the Colonel, John was always up for a challenge. He almost looked forward to giving his former employer the slip. Tired as he was, John welcomed the task before him.

Tension easing further, John stretched out his legs, arms rising over his head as he worked a kink from his back. He glanced at Sherlock again and saw him staring pensively at nothing. With his hands folded together under his chin, steepled fingertips just barely brushing his lower lip, he looked like a man lost in prayer. His mouth moved silently, brow furrowed over his unfocused eyes. John was reluctant to interrupt, but he needed a timeline.

He gently nudged Sherlock’s arm with his elbow, making him start. Dropping his hands, Sherlock turned toward him. “What?”

“How long until we arrive in Gibraltar?”

Sherlock fixed him with a calculating gaze. His eyes narrowed, flickering over John’s face. With his lips pursed, pain lingering around his mouth, he said, “A little under two hours.”

John nodded and settled back into his chair. “Alright.” He wiggled into the cushion and ignored Sherlock’s suspicious expression.

A little under two hours until they docked. A little longer until John made his escape. John didn’t know the terminal's layout, where the road might be, or the best way to escape. He would just have to rely on crowd cover and take it from there. It meant more thinking on his feet, but John was nothing if not adaptable when the need arose.

He shifted a leg, and his boot bumping into Sherlock’s duffle. Looking down at the bag on the ground next to his own, John frowned. Sherlock was still concussed. He was vulnerable and unsteady, couldn’t even carry his own equipment. John couldn’t make a clean escape if he had to force Sherlock to take his duffle before running. Sherlock would pick up on the odd nature of the request at once. John would be caught before he took so much as a step into the crowd.

Keeping his tone casual, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock’s head came up at once. His hands, once more folded beneath his chin, dropped into his lap. The look he turned onto John was searching, and John cursed Sherlock’s instinctive observational capabilities.

“Why?”

John lifted one shoulder in a small half-shrug. “Just wondering.” He forced a wry smile onto his face and added, “Maybe I’m tired of carrying your bag as well as my own.” He hoped the slight jibe would make Sherlock retreat, sidetracking his apparent suspicion.

No such luck.

His upper body twisting around to face him, Sherlock fixed his searching gaze on John’s face. “You sound odd. Why do you sound odd?” His eyes roved over John’s body and settled on his fingers where they fidgeted on his knee. John forced them still, but it was too late to hide his nervousness. Sherlock turned the full focus of his razor-sharp gaze back to his face. “John?”

Feeling like he was about to be dissected, John cleared his throat and crossed his legs. “No idea. I think I sound fine.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed to slits. The intensity of his regard made John squirm. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

John looked away. He hoped a lack of eye contact might alleviate some of the ferocity of Sherlock’s stare, to no avail. If anything, the sensation of Sherlock’s gaze burning into the side of his skull was far worse than meeting his scrutiny head-on. Never one to back down from a challenge, John turned back and met his stare. Chin lifting in a defiant jut, he said, “I don’t need to share every single thought that passes through my head with you. You don’t get that right.”

His words hit their target, Sherlock jerking back as if from a physical blow. Surprise flickered over his face before his expression closed off. It was an echo of their bus ride into Tétouan when John had shut down Sherlock’s small attempt at kindness with reactive cruelty. To have the moment repeated, to see Sherlock react the same now as he had then, triggered gnawing guilt. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that John was antsy. He was right to be suspicious, even if John needed him not to be. He shouldn’t take it out on him.

“Fine.” Sherlock’s voice was clipped and curt. He faced forward again, and John eyed his posture. His back was rigid, his mouth tense.

John sighed. _One step forward, two steps back,_ he thought with a rueful twitch of his lips. _You can do better, Watson._

Eyes closing, John let his breath hiss out through his teeth. He knew what he needed to say, but it was still a struggle to give voice to the apology. When he finally did, his tone emerged strained, releasing a strangled little, “Sorry.”

Sherlock’s head came up. He turned toward him so fast that John imagined he could hear the protest in Sherlock’s neck muscles. “What?”

You heard me, John thought in annoyance. This wasn’t easy for him — couldn’t Sherlock see that? Judging by the small, bemused frown marking Sherlock’s brow, he couldn’t. For such an observant man, the things Sherlock missed were almost comical. Or, maybe John wasn’t the only one who was shite at expressing his emotions.

John cleared his throat and offered a stiff nod. “I said, I’m sorry. Alright?”

The frown remained as Sherlock stared at him. Gradually, he nodded, and some of the tension melted out of his body. “Apology accepted.”

“Alright,” John repeated in a stiff voice. “Yeah. Uh, good.” He fiddled with his sleeve, forced himself to stop, and breathed out a heavy exhale. “How much longer?”

“An hour and twenty minutes,” came the prompt reply. Sherlock still sounded reserved, but he no longer looked like he’d been carved of stone.

“Okay.” John uncrossed his legs. His boot nudged against his duffle again, and he narrowed his eyes at the bags.

There were still obstacles to address in his escape plan. With Sherlock on high alert, attuned to John’s agitation, John knew he had little hope of making a clean break. Which meant it would be messy. But messy or not, it was imperative that he leave. When the moment arrived, John would do what he must to get away. If that meant dropping Sherlock’s bag at his feet and bolting into the crowd, then so be it. The critical thing was Sherlock would be safe, they’d both be out of Morocco, and John could leave with a — mostly — clean conscience.

It was past evening and nearing nightfall with the setting sun casting the view outside the windows into shadow. The dark would make John’s escape that much easier, and he struggled to suppress the exhaustion that arose at the sight of the oncoming night. He hadn’t slept since the bus, and John felt the lack of rest beginning to wear on him. If he didn’t get a proper rest soon, he’d be of no use to anyone, least of all himself. But he had a task to complete, an escape to make before he could think ahead to rest.

Trying to ignore Sherlock’s hard stare, boring into the side of his face, John recrossed his legs and settled in to wait out the remainder of the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with how this chapter came out.


	16. No Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's chickens come home to roost. John is caught off guard.

Sherlock felt like he was caught in a feedback loop. John’s stress fed his, seemingly without respite. Maybe it spoke to the unrelenting danger that seemed to continually dog their heels, but Sherlock thought it had been far too long since they’d caught a break. It felt like events just kept unfolding, leaving little room to draw a steadying breath. Sherlock felt like a man underwater, the surface never within reach no matter how hard he struggled toward it.

John radiating tension and uncertainty only intensified the sense of struggle. Worse still, Sherlock knew there was little he could do to ease his own anxiety, never mind John’s. They were stuck in an undesirable scenario, their lives always on the line.

It was all Sherlock could do to keep afloat, even beneath the surface.

He still wasn’t sure why, but John’s query about his well-being had him on edge. The question, posed as a casual inquiry, immediately struck Sherlock as suspect. It was made too carefully, with some underlying tone that Sherlock barely caught. But he did, and it had set off alarm bells. He’d reacted too strongly, forcing John to retreat and go on the offensive. Sherlock was still kicking himself for his heavy-handed approach, though John’s unexpected apology had felt like a step in the right direction.

Sherlock had little doubt that John’s uncertainties about travelling within the grasp of the British government remained. If the consulate in Tangier had been enough to put him on edge, then Gibraltar, a British territory, presented a far worse threat. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if John bolted the second they made land. He had little illusion to the fact that the only thing keeping John with him at the moment was open water. If the trip to Gibraltar had been possible to make via land, John would surely be long gone by now.

Sherlock tried to prepare himself for what awaited them at the docks. John would make his move quickly, and he wouldn’t look back. He’d be there and then gone if he had his way. Sherlock knew he’d have little chance of finding him again once he slipped away. Even with Mycroft’s interference, Sherlock imagined John might have a few more tricks up his sleeve. If he slipped away, there’d be no catching him. Sherlock usually had little doubt in his ability to find those who didn’t want to be found. He was a skilled tracker: his studies and work predisposed him toward finding that which no one else could. At his best, in his prime, Sherlock knew he could find John no matter where he fled.

But with multiple concussions, killers on his trail, and the need to keep a low profile, Sherlock was at a disadvantage. He was nowhere near his best. He was diminished drastically by his injuries and days of inadequate sleep, and constant stress. Though John seemed just as tired, he had few other restrictions. He was free to come and go as he pleased once they were out of Morocco. He’d spent the past few years as a ghost and could fade back into the world just as easily if given a chance.

Sherlock just had to make sure he didn’t get that chance. It was sheer luck that Mycroft planned to meddle. If Sherlock knew his brother — and he did — he had the feeling Mycroft would make sure John accompanied him to the safe house. He knew Mycroft’s insistence on John’s presence wasn’t due to any sentiment on Mycroft’s part. Nor was it a response to Sherlock’s statement of John’s necessity.

No. Sherlock knew Mycroft wouldn’t let John slip away simply because Mycroft needed to know who he was. He wouldn’t let the man who had slotted Sherlock for destruction, only to then turn around and save him multiple times, disappear. If only because Mycroft excelled in meddling in the affairs of everyone Sherlock came in contact with, John would have little chance to escape.

The thought made Sherlock grimace. He wasn’t much of one to dwell or stew on unseemly behaviours, but even he realized that he was, effectively, forcing John into a corner. If Sherlock was brutally honest, it was more a trap than a corner. And, while Sherlock had little qualms in doing what must be done to get what he wanted, he still felt a slight twinge of guilt. John deserved better. Maybe not based on the past few years of his life, but considering his past, he deserved Sherlock’s honesty. Deserved a choice in the matter. But Sherlock knew John would undoubtedly run if he told John what lay ahead, and Sherlock was just selfish enough not to give him the chance.

In time, John would understand. He would _have_ to concede because Sherlock needed him to. Needed _him_. Out of necessity, yes, but also selfishly. It wasn’t ethical, it wasn’t right or even fair, but there it was.

Sherlock wanted John Watson with him, now and beyond. If trapping him in a corner was the way to achieve that having, then he’d do it without question. If Sherlock had any hope of regaining his life, he needed John. He could handle any guilt that came with his actions if it meant he got what he wanted in the end. John might have different views, but he would have the freedom to choose. Eventually.

Until then, Sherlock would prove his tenacity. He would also prove his inhumanness in the process, but nothing truly worth having ever came without sacrifice. And, if Sherlock was lucky, John might even surprise him. He might come to realize that he wanted to stay — that he needed Sherlock the way Sherlock had come to realize he needed John.

And if not… then Sherlock would let him go. Just like that. Mycroft might not be so obliging, but Sherlock had never let his brother control him before, and he wasn’t about to start. Mycroft always said Sherlock used people to suit his needs. Ironic as the statement was, it was harsh but accurate. Sherlock _did_ use people. He used them when he needed to and took little enjoyment from doing so. He’d done it before, would do it again, and he’d use John just the same.

The difference was, Sherlock had no intention of discarding John after his usefulness served its purpose. He had no machinations of abandoning the ex-soldier. Instead, Sherlock hoped they could become a permanent partnership. At the consulate, he’d forced back idle thoughts about John. About sharing hotel rooms and sentiment. Now, with little to do but wait and agonize over when John would make his move, Sherlock found his thoughts turning back to his earlier considerations.

Sherlock wasn’t a stranger to intimate relations, though he wasn’t what anyone might term an ‘expert.’ As most people did, he had experimented, mainly in university and early adulthood. He was far too curious not to. His liaisons had been limited, and Sherlock could count on one hand how many sexual partners he’d had. There had only been one person, a man his age named Victor Trevor, who earned a repeat performance when all others were a one-and-done scenario.

But even Victor grew tedious in the end, and Sherlock had moved from the idle pursuit of sexual experiments to his work. From there, he’d lost himself in the focus required for his chosen field. Intimacy fell to the wayside. It didn’t help that he was an abrasive person, more often than not rubbing others the wrong way.

His mother used to say he was like sandpaper: made for smoothing but rough to the touch if you weren’t careful. Sherlock supposed it was as accurate a statement as any other, but even with that awareness, he’d failed to change. He never quite succeeded in softening his abrasive side. In time, it became easier to keep others at arm’s length. To focus on the work and bury that more human side of him. The one which ached for companionship, for someone to hear his unrelenting observations and praise him when he was clever (which was almost always).

Genius needed an audience, and Sherlock had been living inside a self-made echo chamber for far too long. It was part of what made trapping John into staying such an easy concept to swallow. Sherlock had no sounding board but his own mind, his own views, which were biased by his desires and needs. Because of this lack of conscience, he didn’t bother with things like right and wrong. Refused to consider the ramifications of his actions if it meant he got what he wanted.

After turning his back on the company of others outside of professional relationships, Sherlock’s tap had run dry. He’d made himself parched, ignoring even the concept of thirst. A desert didn’t ache for rain. It flourished in barren, arid heat, making use of an uninhabitable environment where no other option was available. Sherlock was the same. He went without the proverbial moisture of intimacy in favour of the clarity and focus his isolation provided.

But now, sitting here with John at his side, a man of contradictions and danger, Sherlock was parched. His mouth felt _baked dry_ and empty, and he found he almost ached for the chance to quench that thirst. Here was the potential for connection and, even if it was only ever a partnership and nothing more, Sherlock wanted it. The suddenness and intensity of that wanting startled even him. He’d been right to push back this train of thought at the consulate. Now that he’d given his mind free rein, the ideas it presented were far too distracting. He needed to call his mind to order, but now that he’d allowed it the space to imagine, Sherlock found controlling his thoughts a battle.

His head ached, and it made thinking a chore. He was nowhere near his best, and the knowledge irked.

The abrupt sound of John’s quiet noise as he stretched his arms over his head pulled Sherlock from his musings.

With his gaze fixed forward, he refused to glance at John. Refused to fixate on the small strip of skin above the waist of John’s jeans, bared by his stretch. Sherlock swallowed and narrowed his eyes at the people across from them. He stared at their postures, reading the story of their lives in their clothing and luggage.

Next to him, John dropped his arms from his stretch and breathed out a loud sigh. “How much longer?” he asked, repeating his earlier query. Sherlock glanced at him. He was relieved to see that John’s shirt was once more covering that little strip of stomach and forced a tight smile onto his lips.

“Don’t you own a watch?”

John glared and lifted his arm. His sleeve slid down, revealing an untanned strip of skin on his wrist. “I did, but it stopped working a day ago, and I tossed it.”

Sherlock frowned, wondering how he’d missed that. He didn’t miss things — he was _Sherlock Holmes_. It was his _job_ to see what others didn’t. He was slipping, dangerously so, letting himself become far too distracted by unimportant things, like John’s stomach and his own suddenly awakened libido.

He checked his own watch and saw that he’d been lost in his thoughts for far too long. “Forty-five minutes,” Sherlock said, sliding his sleeve back over the timepiece. “Give or take.”

John nodded and drummed his palms against his thighs. He seemed restless, his earlier agitation returning with the reminder of their impending arrival in Gibraltar. “Right.” His hands bounced again before settling in a white-knuckled grip on his knees. His eyes dropped, darting from his duffle to Sherlock’s, then to Sherlock’s face and away.

Sherlock could almost hear his thoughts, reading them on John’s expressive face before his visage cleared and closed-off. John’s plan was clear, his desire for escape broadcast through his restless movements. Desperate to distract him, Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded at a man a few seats down. “He’s going to meet a child he only just found out existed.”

John started. He turned toward Sherlock, blinked, and shot the indicated man a quick, furtive glance. Brow furrowed, he wet his lips and looked at Sherlock again. “How can you possibly know that?”

Jaw clenched to hold back a smirk, Sherlock pulled in a breath and launched into a flow of observations. He watched as John’s eyes narrowed with skepticism, then slowly widened with surprise. By the time Sherlock came to the end of his deductions, there was a grudging admiration in John’s face.

“Blimey,” he said, shaking his head with a wry smile. “That’s almost scary.”

Sherlock frowned, the statement-making him uncertain. “Not good?” he asked, watching John’s face carefully for the answer.

But John smiled. This time, the expression was genuine. “No, it’s brilliant,” he said, still with that smile. “Do another.”

Relieved and pleasantly surprised by John’s praise, Sherlock shifted in his chair. He resisted the urge to preen and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Who do you suggest?”

John scanned the other passengers. Eyes narrowed, he tilted his chin slightly toward a young woman. “Her.”

His body still buzzing with satisfaction from John’s blatant admiration, Sherlock turned his focus to the indicated passenger. As he studied her manner, he felt himself relax. He glanced at John, saw that his back was a little less stiff. He looked more at ease, and Sherlock hid his smile. For the moment, at least, it seemed that his focus had shifted away from plans of escape. If Sherlock was lucky, they wouldn’t shift back. If he impressed John enough, showed him what he was truly capable of, maybe he wouldn’t have to trap John after all. Perhaps John would realize Sherlock was an asset to him.

Maybe he would stay.

Sherlock took to the challenge with his usual sharp tenacity and hoped it would be enough.

* * *

The closer they drew to docking, the tenser John felt. After Sherlock had lost himself in his head for what felt like ages, John was glad for the distraction of his deductions. He kept John occupied by reading their fellow passengers' lives and did so seemingly without effort. Sharp eyes raking the person from head to toe, Sherlock would spill a series of observations at rapid-fire speed. He delivered his summaries in a near-whisper, keeping his voice pitched low so he wouldn’t be overheard. His lowered volume forced John to lean closer, tilting his head to hear each word that slipped from Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock nodded toward a man about John’s age, his voice dropping into an even softer register. “That man has a male lover in Gibraltar that he’s going to see.”

John’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I thought homosexuality was illegal in Morocco.”

He received an eye roll. “People are still queer even where it’s illegal, John.” Sherlock’s tone was scathing, and John winced. “Please tell me you’re aware of that.”

Colour rushed into John’s cheeks as his face flushed. “Of course I know that,” he hissed, lowering his voice when a young woman glanced their way in concern. He flashed her a smile and continued in a whisper, “I didn’t mean _that.”_

Sherlock looked amused by John’s fluster. “What did you mean, then?”

John huffed. He knew he was being baited but couldn’t help biting. “I meant, it seems like a pretty big risk, don’t you think?”

An odd expression passed over Sherlock’s face, his eyes taking on an introspective gleam. “It is,” he agreed, his words sounding carefully reflective. “But I suppose the risk is worth it for some.” He went quiet, leaving John to consider the statement.

It made sense, John theorized. He knew love was a thing that existed in the real world, a space which John had found himself living outside of for years now. He knew movies, songs, television shows and books presented love as a powerful force. Something worth sacrifice, struggle, strife and risk. John didn’t think he’d ever felt that way about anyone, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to.

It sounded terrifying.

He looked at the man Sherlock had deduced, and John wondered how that might feel. How it might feel to risk everything — life, safety, freedom — just to be with someone. John knew what it was like to have your character questioned because of who you were attracted to. After all, he hadn’t thought of himself as straight since his early teens. He was no stranger to homophobia. But this was different. This was giving up everything, giving up your security, just to be with another person.

John wasn’t sure he could do it. Not with his trust issues. If he was a different person, would that change?

He had no way of knowing.

John slowly tuned back into the moment to find Sherlock staring at him. His expression was strange, his eyes focused and intent upon John’s face. There was something odd in his gaze, something John saw directed at him and didn’t understand. He might have thought it looked like confusion, or wonder, or something like awe. In a way, it looked like all three, but none of those emotions, together or singular, made sense to John. Not when they were directed at him, and certainly not from Sherlock.

He cleared his throat and tipped his head toward the man again. “Well, go on. Tell me more.”

The curious expression disappeared from Sherlock’s face. It was replaced by a tentative eagerness. John tried not to find the look too endearing as Sherlock launched into another series of deductions.

He had no way of verifying if anything Sherlock said was true. For all he knew, Sherlock was making up every word of his ‘deductions,’ and John was a sucker for believing him. But even if Sherlock _was_ lying through his teeth, John found himself enjoying the closeness. There was something almost familiar to how they sat inclined together, Sherlock almost whispering in his ear. It was a far cry from having an intimate someone whispering sweet nothings to him from the other side of a shared pillow, but John found he didn’t mind the contrast.

It was almost nice, in the odd way he was beginning to attribute to much of their interactions. As Sherlock told him every secret belonging to an older woman sat five seats down, how she had once been the willing consort of a highly-ranked official, John smiled. He was reluctant for the moment to end. Not just because Sherlock presented a welcomed distraction from John’s restless thoughts, but because this, the two of them, would soon come to an end. It was nice, in its own way.

As he listened to Sherlock launch into a series of observations about a small family, John knew he would miss this. Might even miss Sherlock himself. They’d only known one another for a total of three days, but John could have sworn it felt longer.

Three days. That was it. For John, it felt like ages. Granted, he’d yet to sleep a full night since meeting Sherlock, and the exhaustion had thrown his internal clock off completely. With the non-stop adrenaline, the navigation of the strange new dynamic he found himself in, John felt he could barely tell up from down. If he wasn’t careful, he might lose his already tenuous grip on reality.

John rubbed a hand over his jaw and sighed. He really needed to sleep. Preferably for an entire year. Hell, he’d take an hour. Even that meagre amount sounded like pure fantasy. John was accustomed to staying awake and keeping odd hours when necessary, but the past few days had proven that even he had a breaking point, and it was fast approaching.

“Are you even listening?”

John blinked, snapped out of his thoughts by Sherlock’s question. He blinked and looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “Sorry, no. Lost myself for a moment.”

Sherlock squinted at him and rolled his eyes. “That’s because you haven’t slept since the bus. And I’m not even sure you slept then.”

John offered a shrug. “I’ll be fine.”

But Sherlock seemed dead-set on disagreeing. Flicking his sleeve back, he checked his watch and pursed his lips. “We have another twenty minutes before we dock. You could sleep.” He narrowed his eyes at John’s skeptical expression and sighed. “I’ll wake you five minutes before we make land.” When John hesitated, he added, “I promise.”

Still dubious, John moved to shake his head. Sherlock scowled and tilted forward until their faces were barely inches apart. John startled, catching himself as the instinct to jerk back rose and was squashed.

“Trust me, John,” Sherlock said. Close as he was, John couldn't avoid his gaze. He did so with a tight throat, finding it suddenly very hard to swallow.

“Why do you keep saying that?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper in the scant space between them.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, and his eyes didn’t shift from where they stared into John’s. “Because you keep making me repeat myself.” Sherlock pulled in a quiet breath, let it out slowly. John felt the warmth of it on his cheek and swallowed again as Sherlock added, “I don’t like repeating myself.”

The proximity leaving him feeling off-kilter, John shot back, “Stop doing it, then.”

Sherlock was just as quick. “Stop second-guessing me, and I will.”

John had to admit, he had him there. He hesitated a moment longer before tilting his head in a slow, stiff nod. “Fine,” he said, letting the reluctance he felt bleed into his voice. There was irritation there as well because Sherlock was right: John needed sleep. He needed to take the edge off his exhaustion if he planned to make a run for it. And he would make a run for it.

John tried not to hear the lack of conviction in his own thoughts and nodded again.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said, fixing Sherlock with a stern eye.

Sherlock nodded. “Fifteen minutes,” he repeated, making the statement a vow.

Reassured, John leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and, casting Sherlock one last uncertain glance, closed his eyes. He didn’t expect to actually fall asleep and resigned himself to a fitful doze. But, gradually, listening to the soft sounds of muted conversation from the other passengers in their area, John slept.

The shrill, sudden laugh of a child woke him. John froze and opened his eyes, his groggy, sleep-addled brain taking far too long to identify whether or not the sound was a threat. By the time he made sense of the noise and his surroundings, John realized he was tilted to the side with his head pillowed on something warm and living.

He stiffened further, the muscles in his neck and shoulders pulling taut. The sleepy edge to his thought processes dissipated at once, and John drew in a surprised breath. He smelled desert air and mint tea and, beneath those, a scent that was only vaguely familiar as intimately unique to a human body that wasn’t his own.

_Sherlock._

John rocketed into an upright sitting position. As he did, Sherlock jolted and shook his head. His eyes were far away and unfocused before they zeroed in on John, who sat staring at him. Sherlock’s fingers, steepled beneath his chin, dropped into his lap.

“What is it?” he asked. Taking in John’s flustered manner, he frowned. “Nightmare?”

“No, I—” John paused, letting the rest of the words die in his throat. He took a moment and narrowed his eyes, studying Sherlock. He looked unperturbed, more bemused than anything, his confusion evidently genuine. It was apparent that John’s reaction made little sense to him, and John slowly relaxed. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Were you thinking?”

Still frowning, Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only been ten minutes.” Eyes lifting to John’s face again, he tilted his head to the side. “I don’t understand what has you so worked up.”

John forced a tight smile. “Nothing,” he lied, feeling a surge of gratitude at Sherlock’s obliviousness. “Just… yeah, a nightmare. That.” The lie was blatant, but John pushed it out regardless. Sherlock must have been too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice John using his shoulder as a pillow.

“If you say so,” Sherlock said, conceding with a confused expression. He pressed his fingertips together beneath his chin again. “We’ll be docking soon.”

John nodded and settled back into his chair. “Right.” He jiggled his foot, knee bouncing as his earlier agitations returned full force. He was mere minutes from escape, no longer hours, and the deadline made him feel lit up like an electric charge. He forced his body still when Sherlock shot him a narrow-eyed glare.

The too-short nap had done more harm than good. John felt scattered, his mind sluggish as it tried to map out his next steps. He silently cursed himself for giving into Sherlock’s suggestion of sleep. He needed to be sharp, would need to be quick and ready, and instead, he felt painfully slow.

Rubbing a hand over his bleary eyes, John watched the other passengers begin to gather their things. Outside the windows, night was almost fully upon them, and he theorized it must be nearing seven o’clock.

After three days with Sherlock, John was preparing to strike off on his own. It hardly seemed real, but the time for them to part had come at last, and John needed to be ready.

The boat slowed, and a docking announcement was broadcast through the scratchy speaker system. John listened with half his focus as the speaker outlined safety measures and the local time. He felt like an astronaut waiting for launch, burning with potential energy and stuck on the tarmac until the right sequence of events occurred to set him free. It was a strange comparison, but it fit John’s current state. Every inch of him ached, his still-healing injuries more so, and his exhaustion battled with a rising surge of adrenaline.

It was almost time.

He felt the heavy rumble as the ferry went through its docking procedure. The floor vibrated beneath his feet, and he heard the engines slow. There was a bump, a swaying motion, and a creak, then they were docked.

John was on his feet with his bag in hand in an instant. After a second of hesitation, he grabbed Sherlock’s as well. With both duffles slung over his shoulders, John waited for Sherlock to rise. He did so slowly, taking a moment to study John from his seat.

When he stood, his eyes dropped to his duffle. He looked like he might say something, but his lips parted without sound and closed again. His expression was an odd mixture of frustrated resignation and doubt, and he stared at John for a silent moment before his face went blank. Offering a curt nod that John couldn’t decipher the meaning of, Sherlock turned away and moved toward the back of the ship.

Made wary by the strange moment, John followed slowly. He watched the other passengers as they crowded around them, everyone waiting to disembark. The two duffle bags hung heavily from his shoulders, and John shifted his weight as his body threatened to sag with fatigue.

The doors opened, and they walked forward in a crush. With his heart in his throat, his pulse quickening, John waited for his moment. They crossed over the small walkway that connected boat to dock, the water a quiet source of noise beneath the sound of footsteps. Sherlock was slightly ahead of him, and John stared at his back. He’d thought Sherlock had sussed out his plan to run. John expected resistance, anticipated Sherlock’s interference. But he walked ahead without bothering to look behind, without checking to see if John was still there. Even when they reached the dock and left the walkway behind, he didn’t look.

John found himself caught between relief and confusion. He’d been so confident that Sherlock knew what he planned to do, had even worried he might try to stop him. But here he was, almost ignoring John’s presence entirely. It was baffling. It could be the concussion, the fatigue, slowing him down. Sherlock wasn’t superhuman. He was infallible, capable of missing things. He might simply have missed the signs, and John was too paranoid to realize.

Unless Sherlock _did_ know. Unless he knew and he was letting John escape. Giving him the easy way out, leaving space for him to slip away into the crowd. It seemed unlikely, but John couldn’t shake the thought.

Whatever the reason for Sherlock’s lack of attention, John needed to make his move. The longer he waited, the longer he dwelled, the smaller his window of escape grew. They were almost off the dock, nearing where the road began.

It was now or never.

The moment his boot connected with concrete, John reacted. He gripped the strap of Sherlock’s duffle and lifted it off his shoulder. Moving around to Sherlock’s side, he prepared to abandon the bag at his feet and melt into the crowd. It would take seconds, drop and dash.

His hand tightened then loosened, the bag halfway out toward Sherlock. It was slipping free, the strap sliding along John’s palm. The weight released, the pack started to fall, and John turned to disappear. But when he turned, he came face-to-face with a man in a dark suit. The bag made a thud as it connected with the ground, Sherlock let out a startled grunt, and John froze.

“Hello, Captain Watson.” The man’s voice was perfectly cordial, his expression impassive in the illumination cast by the lights marking the dock. A pair of sunglasses hid his eyes, and John spotted an earpiece in one of his ears.

“Sorry, not me,” he said, affecting a Cockney accent. “Got the wrong guy, mate. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve somewhere to be.” He moved to shift past the man, ignoring the sensation of Sherlock’s stare on his back.

The man caught John’s arm and stopped him again. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, sir.”

John went stiff and still. Slowly, he turned his head and looked into the man’s face. He saw his reflection mirrored back to him in the polished lenses. Dropping the accent, John said in a soft voice, “No idea who you are, but that’s not really your decision to make.” He tensed his arms, muscles rippling beneath his sleeves. “Best to let me go before I make you.”

He received a flat, polite smile. “Let’s not make a scene, Captain Watson.”

“No idea who that is,” John snapped, narrowing his eyes. “And I’ll make a fucking scene if I want.” A threat rose in his throat, weighty on his tongue. It was cocked and ready to fly when Sherlock spoke from behind him.

“John.”

The way he said his name made John stiffen again. He looked over his shoulder, saw Sherlock watching him without blinking. He didn’t look surprised to see a man grasping John’s arm, or that the man was clearly MI6. Dread rose in John’s chest, spilling out in an icy flood. “What is this?” he demanded, realization sharpening his words. “What the fuck did you do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock winced but held his ground. He stepped closer, waving the man off.

To John’s horror, the man holding his arm stepped away at once, releasing John. Shooting him a glare, John whirled and turned the full force of his growing anger on the man who had repeatedly asked John to trust him. “What did you _do?”_ he asked again, voice low and harsh.

Sherlock’s face twitched in a grimace. He took a step closer. “Just let me explain, John.”

But John took a step away. He ignored the man at his back, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. “No,” he said, shaking his head and searching the people passing them by. He saw two more men in suits and sunglasses, and his breathing quickened. “No,” he repeated, forcing his eyes back to Sherlock, “I don’t want to hear whatever you have to say.”

“John.” Sherlock moved closer, lifting a hand, reaching out. “John, listen to me.”

John batted Sherlock’s hand away with his teeth bared. “Back off, Sherlock.” He glanced at the man behind him, saw him watching warily. He didn’t have a weapon — or, if he did, it was holstered. John needed to react, now or never, if he hoped to get away. Slamming an elbow back into the man’s stomach, hearing his startled grunt, John surged forward. The sudden movement took Sherlock by surprise, and he stumbled back. He tripped on his duffle where it sat on the ground, forced to fight to keep his balance.

“John! Wait!” he called, cursing when he went down on one knee.

John didn’t heed his words. He took advantage of the distraction to sprint into the crowd. From the edge of his vision, he saw the two other men break into jogs, heading his way. Gripping the strap of his bag, John ducked his head and forced a burst of speed. He considered pausing to fish out his gun, but there was no time. Right now, John needed to run. And he did, in an all-out sprint for freedom. The distance between himself and the men increased. Breath rushing out of his open mouth in an irregular pant, John aimed for the parking lot and the road beyond. His legs ached, the healing bullet wound in his left thigh burning with exertion. Fatigue dragged at his heels, but he pushed onward, ignoring his body’s demands for rest.

He’d just gained the parking lot when a car pulled up and cut him off. It came out of nowhere, sleek and black and sliding out of the dark like a shadow. One moment, the way was clear, then John was blinded by headlights, and the car swept into his path. He was forced to stop, the car pulling up in front of him. The sudden stop sent John careening off to the side, and he twisted his knee as he went, swearing loudly at the surge of pain.

Before he managed to regain his equilibrium, his knee screaming with agony, the rear door closest to him opened. Another suited, sunglasses-wearing man appeared. This one was armed, and he aimed the gun in his hand at John.

Staring into the cold eye of the weapon, John felt the last dregs of strength leave his body. He sagged, grunting through his teeth as his weight shifted to his twisted knee. He heard footsteps behind him, three jogging and one slower, and knew he was trapped.

It took far more energy than he could afford to spare, but John drew himself upright. He squared his shoulders before he turned. The three other men stood in a loose semi-circle, watching him warily. John could feel the gun at his back like a physical presence, ignored as he turned his attention to Sherlock.

Whatever John had expected, it wasn’t the look of vivid regret on Sherlock’s face. It forced him off-balance for a moment, and John struggled to regain even that in the face of all the ground he’d lost. It took John far too long to find the right words. When he did, John hurled them at Sherlock like something sharp and deadly.

“You asked me to trust you.”

Sherlock flinched. “I did,” he agreed in a quiet voice, coming closer, “and I’m asking you to continue to do so.”

Eyes narrowed, John glanced over his shoulder. The gun was still aimed at his back, and he looked at Sherlock with a scowl. “You realize you’re not making that very easy for me.”

Sherlock tilted his head in a small nod. “I know, and I’m sorry. But I’m still asking you to trust me.”

Staring at him, John wondered how Sherlock could ask that of him. How he could walk John into a trap and expect any kind of loyalty was beyond John’s understanding. The betrayal stung. Sherlock knew John’s past, knew his history, and still, he had set this up.

The worst part was John had gone willingly. Followed him right into the deception, practically offered his leg so Sherlock could snap the cruel teeth of the trap shut. He was out of options. John could make a run for it, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t be gunned down before he even took a step. He might be able to get to his weapons, even tucked into the bag as they were, but it was likely a gamble he would lose. He was caught. There was nowhere to go but forward, wherever that might take him.

John spoke through his teeth, forcing the words out past a rigid jaw. “You can take your trust and fuck right off.”

Sherlock’s face fell. “John—”

But John was through with listening to whatever he had to say. He held up a hand to silence Sherlock and turned to face the man with the gun. “If you’re going to take me, get on with it,” he snapped, dropping his duffle onto the ground at his feet. “I’m fucking exhausted, and I’m not going to sit here and play along with whatever this is.” Hands in front of him, John held out his arms. “Do what you gotta do.”

The man holding the gun eyed him for a moment before his gaze shifted over John’s shoulder. He was looking at Sherlock. Whatever he saw there, it made him lower the weapon. “Restraints won’t be necessary, Captain Watson.” Stepping aside, the man gestured to the car. “If you don’t mind.”

John stared at the interior. He saw leather and real wooden trim, and the luxury did little to soothe his anxious anger. But he offered a curt nod and moved forward. Stepping over his dropped duffle, he stooped and slipped into the car, sliding to the far door. It was locked, the handle not even making so much as a click when John tried it.

He heard someone climb in after him and saw Sherlock ducking into the car. He had the decency to stay on his side, as far from John as the seat allowed.

John turned his attention away from him, toward the front of the car. His view was blocked by a partition made of tinted glass, and he frowned at the obviousness. He heard doors closing, and the door next to Sherlock slammed shut. There was a moment of quiet before the engine hummed, and the car pulled away from the dock.

Silent and furious, John stared straight ahead and prepared himself for whatever came next.


	17. Resentful and Apologetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Sherlock, and Sherlock tries to explain his actions.

The atmosphere within the car vibrated with tension, and the air in the back seat felt thick with quiet fury. With the soundproofing, the interior was nearly silent, and John was a man carved of stone.

Sherlock stayed on his side of the backseat. Even with the space between him and John, he could feel the temper radiating off of John in waves. Sherlock couldn’t begrudge John his anger, but he still found himself searching for something to say. If he could find the right words to explain the necessity of the detainment, John might see reason. He might even agree with Sherlock. He might realize that it had been the only possible move to make.

Eyeing John’s rigid posture, Sherlock found his own thoughts hard to believe. The fact was, he’d done a bad thing — a terrible thing with complicated consequences. Sherlock chose this path, even indirectly, by failing to let John in on Mycroft’s plan. Here was his penance, the outcome he had to stomach.

That didn’t sit well with Sherlock. John’s response was rational, fair, but Sherlock felt he deserved the chance to explain. He opened his mouth to speak, saw John twitch, and hesitated. John went still again, his face darkened by a scowl. His hands, resting on his knees, flexed in a slow, dangerous curl.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “John—”

“Don’t.” John’s voice was hard, unforgivingly so.

Sherlock flinched. He tried again in a clipped tone, “John, if you’d just—”

John’s shoulders jerked upward, his head ducking in a defensive dip. His hands curled into tight fists. “I said _don’t,_ Sherlock.”

Lips pressed together in a grimace, Sherlock fell silent. He actually contemplated heeding the warning in John’s words. Then he cast the thought aside and tried once more. “These men work for my brother.” A loud breath hissed out through John’s teeth, but he didn’t speak. Sherlock took that as an encouraging sign. “I wouldn’t let them harm you, John,” he said earnestly, “and I still won’t. If I’d known Mycroft planned to use such force, I never would have—”

John made a low, strangled noise. It reminded Sherlock of a tortured animal, and he stiffened. The sound cut Sherlock off mid-sentence as John slowly turned toward him. His eyes were hard, wide and unblinking. His hands, still resting in fists on his thighs, shook. “You _knew?”_

Sherlock closed his mouth with a click of teeth. “Yes, but…” Regret rolled over him, and he winced. “I didn’t know the exact details.”

He would have gone on, but John bared his teeth. He cut Sherlock off with a violent gesture, his hand cutting through the air with fearsome force. “Don’t give me your fucking excuses, Sherlock.” John’s expression was as steely as his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin, white line.

“John.”

To Sherlock’s alarm, John’s mouth curled into a slow smile. It reminded him of crocodile tears, devoid of humour and sharp as a blade. The sight of it made something tremble in Sherlock’s chest. The look reminded him of their first meeting, of John when he was still an enemy: razor-edged and dangerous.

That smile made him look like that all over again.

“How long have you known?” John asked in a soft voice. On the surface, the words sounded emotionless, but Sherlock heard the building rage beneath it. Like a ticking time bomb, counting down to eruption. “How long have you been planning this? Telling me to trust you, lying to my face… how long, Sherlock?” John’s smile spread a little wider, and his eyes gleamed. “Since the phone call?"

Sherlock stiffened, a hint of frustration rising through the heavier weight of his guilt. “No,” he said with a flicker of his own anger. John’s eyebrows rose in an incredulous expression, forcing Sherlock to rush on. “I told Mycroft I wasn’t coming alone. He pieced the story together, about who you had been. I didn’t expect him to threaten violence to keep you with me.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?” he said in that same dangerous voice. “Is that so?” His stare was unblinking, pinning Sherlock in place. That smile lingered, turning John’s face into a hard mask. “Not sure I believe you.”

Irritated by the lack of trust — even if it was warranted — Sherlock dug Mycroft’s note out of his pocket and held it out. “Here.” John tensed and stared at the offering without moving until Sherlock bared his teeth and shook it at him. “Take it!”

A ripple went through John’s body. It was slow and subtle, a deliberate roll of tension that pushed his shoulders back, jerked his chin upward. His jaw clenched, and a muscle flexed in his throat. Watching his posture change, Sherlock realized John no longer looked like a man who had lost everything he’d once known. If they’d been standing, Sherlock thought John might have appeared taller, despite his shorter height.

With just a subtle shift, John looked every inch the soldier he’d once been. He looked like the mercenary he still was.

Alarm bells rang in Sherlock’s head, reminding him that John was still an unknown. They’d only been together three days. Sherlock knew his back story, knew what he was capable of, but he didn’t actually _know_ John. He was a stranger and a dangerous one.

Deadly.

For the first time since they’d switched sides, Sherlock felt a flicker of fear. The armed men's presence in the front seat somewhat eased the feeling but didn’t banish it entirely. Sherlock had little doubt that if John wanted to, he could incapacitate him without breaking a sweat. Likely before Mycroft’s men could react. And Sherlock was as good as useless. With his concussion, his lingering exhaustion, he’d stand little chance. If John put his mind to it, he could end Sherlock here and now.

With John staring hard at him, still wearing that little smile, Sherlock wondered if John thought the same thing.

Softening his tone, Sherlock let a hint of a plea slip into his voice. “I promise you, John. I didn’t lie to you about the phone call.” He held the note out again, his eyes earnest, imploring. For once in his life, the expression was entirely genuine. “Please. Just _read it.”_

John hesitated a moment longer. With his gaze still unblinking and lit with harsh fury, he searched Sherlock’s face. He sat perfectly still with his eyes narrowed before finally reaching out and taking the slip of paper.

Sherlock let his hand fall back to his lap and waited as John unfolded the note.

He scanned the contents. Brow furrowing, he reread it. Twice more before his hand closed into a slow, vicious fist, the paper crumbled cruelly against his palm. The look John turned onto Sherlock would have struck him dead if such a thing were possible.

“You asked me to trust you,” he said through his teeth. “You asked that of me, knowing how hard it was for me to do it. And then you knew about _this,”_ John tossed the crumpled note toward him, “and you didn’t tell me. You knew what would happen when we docked, and _you let it happen.”_ His voice was rising, nearing a shout.

Sherlock let the balled-up paper hit his chest and drop to the floor. He opened his mouth to reply when the partition separating them from the front of the car abruptly slid down. One of Mycroft’s men glanced in at them, his eyes darting to John. “Everything alright?”

“We’re fine,” Sherlock said, waving him away. The man didn’t retreat, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “A little privacy?” The man’s gaze lingered on John, making Sherlock’s upper lip curl back. “If you don’t _mind?”_ He received a frown for the tone, but the man finally leaned back, and the partition slid back into place.

Confident the man wouldn’t interrupt again unless John’s anger took the form of physical violence, Sherlock turned back to John. “You’re right,” he began, only for John to bark out a sharp, brittle laugh and interrupt him.

“Oh, I _am,_ am I? How kind of you to say so!” John’s tone rose again, this time into a mockery of gratitude. His hands lifted with his voice, fingers curled into fierce claws. “God, don’t know what I’d do without you!” John’s arms fell, and his lips twisted in a snarl. “I should have left you in that hotel room,” he added in a harsh voice. “But I didn’t, and that’s my own damn fault.”

Sherlock flinched. His headache, briefly receded and now agitated by John’s loud voice, had returned full-force. Trying to cover his pain, Sherlock clenched his teeth. “You were going to leave.”

Another harsh laugh from John. “You’re bloody right, I was! And you know why? Because you’re dangerous, Sherlock.” He jabbed a finger in Sherlock’s direction. John’s hand shook, the gesture made unsteady by his anger. “And I knew that. But I ignored my instincts because you were so _pitiful_. You were lost and wounded and hurt, and I took pity on you.” The sound John made was humourless and strangled. “I won’t make that same mistake again.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped at the statement, and he sucked in a breath. John’s words hurt, stinging far worse than crueller things said to him by worse people. He felt sick, his vision beginning to double from the headache. Closing his eyes, Sherlock exhaled, trying to breathe out some of the agony, both physical and emotional.

“It wasn’t my intention to betray you, John.” His voice emerged far quieter than intended, and Sherlock felt more than saw John lean closer to pick up his words. “Our partnership is important to me. I never wanted to make you regret it.”

“Our _partnership,”_ John spat the word, “has consisted for all of two days, Sherlock. Hardly something to risk my trust over.”

Sherlock breathed out another sigh. “It _is_ important,” he insisted.

“Oh? Is it?” John seethed through his teeth. “Is this how you treat the things that are important to you? If so, I’d like to be downgraded to unimportant, thanks.”

The words were harsh. Sherlock flinched. “I did it to keep you safe.”

John scoffed. “I find that hard to believe.” He sounded bitter.

With significant effort, Sherlock forced his eyes open. His vision greyed at the edges before clearing, and he resisted the urge to sway. “I imagine there’s little I can say to convince you that I only ever had your best interest at heart—”

“You’re bang on with that one, you are,” John interrupted. The dangerous, deadly smile was gone. In its place was a stiff facade, a ragged mask of anger.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The gesture did little to ease his headache, and he silently cursed himself as he continued, “I need you to understand why I didn’t tell you about Mycroft’s men. You need to know why I thought it was safer not to.”

Silence met his statement as John stared. He stared for so long that Sherlock began to squirm in his seat. He forced himself to be still, waiting for John to speak. When he finally did, he sounded exhausted.

“Why couldn’t you just let me go?” he asked in a softer voice. “You got what you wanted — you’re out of Morocco. That was the deal. I help you, you help me, we part ways.” He shook his head, helpless confusion passing over his face. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t just let me leave.”

Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. “Part of it is Mycroft. He’s a meddler — always has been. As you can see by the note, he never intended for you to escape. I thought that, if you knew, you would put up a fight. If you’d known about his plan, you’d have walked onto that dock prepared for a fight.”

His anger returning full-force, John scowled. “Yeah, I fucking _would_ have been prepared!” he snapped in an incredulous voice. “I wouldn’t have just walked blind into a bloody ambush like that.”

“And that would have been your downfall, John.” Suddenly earnest, Sherlock forgot to keep his distance. He turned toward John and leaned forward. John recoiled at once with a visceral response that Sherlock ignored. In his fervour, he almost reached out to catch John’s fisted hands but caught himself at the last second. His hands hovered in the space between them. “John,” he said quietly, “if you’d stepped out onto that dock armed, they wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot you. Mycroft is a powerful man, but these men are trained to respond to a threat. If they saw you as one, they would have put you down. Without thought.”

John just stared. His eyes looked hard, nearly black in the dark interior.

Sherlock stared back with a desperation he found he couldn’t hide. “Don’t you see?” he whispered, straining to make John understand. “You’d be _dead.”_

His eyes slid away, and John pressed back against the seat. “You don’t know that,” he said in an uneasy voice.

Sherlock frowned. “It would have ended up five to one, John. I know you’re skilled, but do you really think you could take down five MI6 agents?”

John’s gaze flashed back to him, his face twisting with sudden fury. “Maybe not,” he admitted, eyes narrowed, “but I would have done my damnedest to take as many as I could with me.”

Defeated by John’s relentless anger, Sherlock shook his head. He slumped into the seat, John’s rage and his own snarling headache sucking away the last of his strength. “If you think dying in a blaze of glory is the best option, then you’re far stupider than I could have imagined.”

His hands clenching back into fists, John went deadly still next to him. “If you’re trying to apologize, you’re doing a really shite job of it.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and closed his eyes. “I’m aware, John. But it seems that, no matter what I say, you’ll insist on finding fault. So it hardly matters what I say.”

His words were met with terse silence. Sherlock didn’t bother to open his eyes. He could hear that John hadn’t moved, that he was sitting statue-still once more. It seemed that, for the moment, he’d won.

Sherlock blew out a loud sigh and pressed his cheek against the cool leather of the seat. His skull ached, eyes pulsing with sick waves of pain that made his head spin with vertigo. Even with his eyes closed, he felt like the car was tilting with every turn. With his stomach roiling, and his chest aching, he left John to his fury.

* * *

John had no idea where the men were taking them, and Sherlock seemed unwilling to speak again. As tense as they both were, the quiet suited John just fine. He was still furious, his body humming with the violent anger he’d always struggled with. All his life, from childhood and into his adult years, John had issues controlling his anger. He was quick to flare, and when he burned, he burned hard: long, and white-hot. Sherlock’s responses had done little to quell his rising fury. The silence was better. Without it, John wasn’t sure what he might do, how he might react.

He wanted to lash out, wanted to release the pent-up energy in his muscles. He ached for action, his fingers flexing into fists that craved action. If Sherlock opened his idiot mouth again and said another stupid thing, if he tried to make light of John’s rage, John didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from reacting. And if he responded in this state, there’d be nothing to salvage between them.

And wasn’t that a surprise? That he even wanted to have something to salvage shocked John almost more than Sherlock’s actions. When it came down to it, John had never fully trusted Sherlock. In a way, it was his own fault for falling into the trap he was caught in. He hadn’t been lying when he said he should have left Sherlock days ago. But that was then, and this was now. Now, John had to work out the next step. It seemed the choice to stay had been taken from him, unexpectedly and with force. He’d been stupid enough to walk into a trap, and he’d have to be innovative if he wanted to slip away.

But John was tired and on his own. He needed someone to have his back. With little in the way of options, that meant making Sherlock his ally again. It shouldn’t be hard, not when Sherlock had all but admitted that he kept his brother’s plan from John because he thought John would flee or fight. It was evident that Sherlock had made his choice out of a desire to keep John with him. To protect him. Though John couldn’t fathom the why of it, Sherlock had evidently marked John as someone worth keeping. It was hard to understand Sherlock’s betrayal when John didn’t know his full motives. He needed to determine Sherlock’s plan, needed his help, and that meant sticking around.

John ground his teeth together. Glaring at the tinted glass partition, he realized he wasn’t _just_ angry. Beneath all the rage, all that humming, furious anger, he was _hurt._

The feeling settled into his chest and burned, and John couldn’t shrug it off.

Even if he hadn’t fully trusted Sherlock, he’d _wanted to._ John had finally thought there was a chance for him to change. Had believed Sherlock was someone he could actually place his faith in, even temporarily. He’d taken a risk and reached out, only for Sherlock to break his word.

But had he, really? Sherlock had kept vital information with John. He’d been dishonest, forced John into a trap. But did that mean Sherlock had truly broken his vow? Without knowing where they were going, John had no way of answering his own questions. For all he knew, he was on his way to a cell. To a trial. To torture.

He shivered at the last. Closing his eyes, John tried to slow his breathing at the wash of memories the thought inspired. He wouldn’t go through that again — _couldn’t_ go through that again. He’d die before he let something like that happen. Never again would John let someone break him. If it came down to death or torture, he’d choose death without hesitation.

Unless John wasn’t on his way to prosecution and pain. Maybe there was a plan, an offering of safety. It seemed strange for Sherlock to ‘save him’ just for John to be tortured or thrown in a cell. There had to be more to it.

He opened his eyes and glanced at Sherlock. Curled into himself, he looked pained, eyes closed, his expression strained. He was still concussed, and his head had to be hurting something awful. John’s shouting couldn’t have helped with the headache.

In spite of everything, despite his lingering anger, John felt a spike of sympathy. He tried to push it back, but it stubbornly remained. He wanted to tell himself it was just his training as a doctor, that he couldn’t possibly care beyond professional empathy.

But he didn’t quite believe his own excuses, and John shook his head at his own stubborn idiocy.

At his core, John knew he cared. He cared about Sherlock, and seeing him in pain was unpleasant. God, what had Sherlock _done_ to him? If this was the kind of effect he could have on John after barely three days together, what would happen the longer they spent with each other? Was he doomed to continue feeling responsible for Sherlock? Was _responsible_ really the right word for what he felt?

John didn’t think it was.

His breath whooshed out in a defeated sigh. Shifting in his seat with a small flinch, Sherlock opened his eyes at the sound. He looked at John with a bleary gaze, and John realized he was doomed. Caught. Despite Sherlock’s betrayal, John _did_ care. He’d cared before, when he hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave in Tétouan, and he cared now. It was an irrefutable fact, and it both infuriated and exhausted him.

Whatever else Sherlock had done, he’d also managed to wrap John around his little finger, seemingly without even trying. It was a terrifying thought.

Would he really have succeeded in leaving Sherlock behind at the ferry docks? John wasn’t sure, but he knew Sherlock was still too much of a liability for John to stay. If he was granted another chance to escape, he would take it. He _should_ take the opportunity if it arose, but it was hard to believe that he would.

“John.” Sherlock’s quiet voice interrupted his thoughts.

Looking at him, John willed the caring to fade away. He tried to hate him, wanted to tell himself Sherlock wasn’t someone he should still consider trustworthy. But the feeling remained, the tangible worry and his confused anger heavy in his chest, and John waited silently for Sherlock to continue. He didn’t have anything to say himself. His words had dried up, his mouth made empty by the realization that Sherlock had trapped him with more than just armed men.

When Sherlock still didn’t speak, John said, “What is it?”

Sherlock’s eyes looked dark, red-rimmed and faded with pain. He wet his lips before speaking, wincing at his own voice. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rough undertone.

John slowly folded his arms over his chest and nodded stiffly. “I know.” His words coaxed a tentative smile onto Sherlock’s pained face. John looked away, his confusion increasing at the sight of it. “That doesn’t mean I forgive you,” he added. He saw Sherlock grimace from the edge of his vision.

“I understand,” came the quiet reply, “and I promise that you’ll see why it was necessary.”

John clenched his teeth together. It was a long moment before he managed to respond. “Not sure you’re in the position to be making promises, Sherlock.” His statement hit its mark, and he caught Sherlock’s flinch from the corner of his eyes. The reaction made John wince as well, but he couldn’t take the words back. Instead, he glanced at Sherlock and doubled down. “Don’t ask me to trust you again.”

His forehead creased by a small frown, Sherlock blinked slowly at him. His tense posture communicating reluctance. But he nodded, and John relaxed his jaw. “I understand,” he repeated in a small voice. “And I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already said that,” John snapped. He couldn’t hear any more of Sherlock’s remorse. John didn’t want to comfort Sherlock when _he_ was the one who got the short end of the stick. Sherlock’s mouth opened again, and John growled, “I think it’s better if you shut up now, Sherlock.” Catching the flicker of hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, John softened his voice with a sigh. “Please. Just… stop apologizing. I don’t want to hear it.”

Sherlock nodded again. The gesture was grudging, but he didn’t force the matter. Eyes sliding closed, he curled back into himself.

They both lapsed into silence. Like before, John was grateful for it. But there was an edge to the quiet now, a buzz of emotion that hadn’t been present earlier. Earlier, John had felt only his own anger, his rage filling the small space. Now, with his fury tempered by confusion and concern, he could feel Sherlock’s pain and regret. They were like physical entities, pressing desperate fingers to John’s skin, whispering in his ear.

He chanced a glance at Sherlock, saw his face creased by discomfort, and frowned. They both needed rest, but Sherlock was in far worse a state than John. If they were lucky, the car was taking them somewhere Sherlock could sleep.

“Do you know where we’re going?” John asked, with his voice pitched low.

One of Sherlock’s eyes opened. He looked at John, sat up slowly, and blinked both open. His gaze was dulled by pain, his skin pallid against the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “A safe house.” He sounded tired, worn-out to the bone. His eyelids fluttered in a wince, and Sherlock covered his eyes with a hand.

The corners of John’s mouth tugged down in reluctant sympathy. “Well,” he sighed, looking out the window at the night-dark landscape, “I suppose that’s a small positive.”

He saw the edge of Sherlock’s lips closest to him curl upward. “That’s the spirit, John. Silver lining.”

John forced back the urge to smile. Clearing his throat, he folded his arms over his chest. “Still mad at you.” Despite the statement, there was little venom in the words. He was tired, Sherlock was in pain, and John couldn’t quite find the energy to stoke the fading fires of his anger.

Sherlock let out a quiet laugh. It sounded relieved. “I don’t blame you.”

Something resembling peace followed his words, and John found himself relaxing. The remnants of his anger still buzzed throughout his body, but the raging blaze was, for now, contained.

The sound of a ringing phone made him jump. Sherlock jolted. Hand falling away from his eyes, he sat up with a frown. Sherlock blinked and glared as a panel slipped out from between their seats, and a phone rose into view. It rang again, making Sherlock hiss in pain before he seized it. He answered mid-ring with a sharp, _“What?”_

Brow furrowed, John watched as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He listened for a moment and pursed his lips.

Expression darkening, he snapped, “I’m aware, Mycroft.”

Ah. The brother. John clasped his hands together, trying to quell a flicker of anger. He might feel sympathetic toward Sherlock, injured and pitiful as he was, but those feelings didn’t extend to Sherlock’s brother.

Bottom lip turning white beneath the press of his teeth, John watched Sherlock with unblinking eyes and a frown.

“Yes, _Mycroft._ Yes. I understand.” Sherlock’s jaw clenched, his words annoyed. His gaze flickered to John, lingered, darted away. Voice lowering, he muttered, “It went about as well as you’d expect.” He listened, looked at John again. This time, there was the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. “No, I wouldn’t say John is your biggest fan right now.”

John smirked, piecing the conversation together. He felt an unexpected flicker of pleasure when Sherlock returned the expression and John tried to make his face blank. Judging by Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, he didn’t quite succeed. If anything, Sherlock’s own smirk widened.

“Sure, Mycroft. Whatever you like. Now, if you don’t mind… my head feels like a military testing site, and your voice is, frankly, _grating._ Laters!” Sherlock hung up the phone and banged on the device until it slipped back into the bench with a soft mechanical whir. Only then did he slump back down in his seat, the smirk finally fading. It was clear that just the conversation had been enough to sap what little of his strength remained.

Again, John warred with his sympathetic concern. He won, but only just. Clearing his throat, he asked, “What was that about?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “Mycroft sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. As always.” He shot John a sideways look, evaluating. “He wanted to know what happened at the dock. And you are aware of my response.”

John ducked his head to hide the small smirk returning to his lips. “I did,” he agreed. Before Sherlock could return the gesture, John forcefully schooled his expression into something less amused. “Anything else?” He kept the question casual, but Sherlock heard the distrust beneath the words.

He sat up at once, turning to John with an earnest expression. “No surprises this time, John. I swear.”

One eyebrow rising in suspicion, John tipped his head to the side. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Sherlock looked frustrated, then pained, then exhausted. Instead of putting up a fight, he sank down again and sighed. “Very well, John.” Rubbing a hand over his face, scrubbing some colour into his pallid cheeks, he closed his eyes. “We’ll be there soon.” He subsided into a tired silence.

Listening to the quiet hum of the vehicle, John stared at the glass partition between them and the front of the car. Now that he knew where they were headed and that it was a safe house, the last of his lingering adrenaline drained away. John wasn’t entirely at ease, still on edge about what might ultimately happen to him. But, for the moment, John thought he could relax. For the moment, he was safe.

Head tilted back against the seat, he let his eyes slide shut and waited for the car to stop.


	18. Safe House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to reluctant terms with his captivity, and Sherlock is appalled by Mycroft's deception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here we are, finally at 100k. I wanted to share some amazing fan art made by a wonderful reader, [kettykika78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettykika78) who drew some _amazing_ portraits of our Hired Gun boys. 
> 
> Sherlock:
> 
> and John:
> 
>   
> 
> 
> I am absolutely blown away by her talent and so honoured that she was inspired enough to draw my Hired Gun boys.

Sherlock woke with a jolt. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he’d managed to doze off, lulled by the quiet hum of the engine. It was a moment before he realized where he was, why he was in a car, and who the tired, tense-looking man seated next to him was. His vision took longer to clear, John’s face slowly swimming into focus. Sherlock blinked at him and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“John.”

“I think we’re at the safe house,” John said. He squinted out the window. Sherlock saw it was far too dark to make out much while sitting up and looking out his own. But there was a light ahead, and he managed to open the door and push himself out of the car. His legs were shaky, threatening to buckle. The nap couldn’t have lasted longer than a few minutes, and Sherlock was exhausted. He closed the door behind him, resisted the urge to sag against it, and turned toward the brightness. It was a floodlight, illuminating a cobblestone driveway leading to a heavy gate. He looked over the roof of the car as John exited on the opposite side.

John paused and looked at the gate with a frown. “We’re not driving through?”

The man in the passenger seat, the one who had pointed a gun at John back at the ferry dock, answered the question. “No, Captain Watson. The car won’t remain on site.” He strode to the back of the vehicle as the boot popped open. He reached inside and pulled out their duffle bags, upper body bent over the open trunk.

Sherlock saw John eyeing the man’s gun and prayed he wouldn’t try anything stupid. But John only clenched his jaw and looked forward again. His eyes darted to Sherlock, his brow furrowing as his frown deepened. “I hope it’s not much of a walk.”

Was that concern Sherlock saw in his eyes? Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part, but he thought it might be.

“It’s not far, Captain Watson,” the man replied, slipping the duffles over his shoulders. “The front door is a few meters past the gate.”

John’s teeth clicked together hard enough for Sherlock to hear it on the other side of the car. “Stop calling me that.”

The man offered a passive smile, ignored the baiting tone, and gestured toward the gate. “After you, sirs.”

John flashed the man a mutinous glare but subsided. To Sherlock’s relief, he marched around the car and toward the gate without a word. It was a tall gate, solid wood rising to John’s height. It looked sturdy and heavy, and Sherlock eyed it warily as his fatigue increased at the sight. By the time he reached it, John had already unlatched and pushed it open. He hesitated, lingering with his eyes on Sherlock.

“You alright?”

Sherlock see-sawed a hand. “Tired,” he said, exhaustion evident in his quiet voice. John nodded and waited for him to walk through before leaving the armed man to wrestle with the gate and their bags. Sherlock smothered a smile at the blatant insult on John’s part.

Behind them, the car pulled away, backing down the long drive with a low revving sound.

Beyond the gate, the cobblestone lane led to the house. The exterior was beige stucco, the front door set in a recess with an arched overhang. It was two stories, the upper windows perfectly aligned and separated by an attractive brickwork facade. The yard was deep green, shaded by several trees and sporting a well-tended flowerbed. In addition to the large gate, a brick wall ran the property, protecting and hiding it from the road below, the house itself set on a hillside lane.

It looked like it probably cost at least a million and a half pounds, and Sherlock scowled. “Bit flashy, isn’t it?” he commented, eyeing the pristine walkway, “for a safe house?”

“It’s not always a safe house,” their escort said. “But, for now, it serves the purpose.”

They’d almost reached the front door when another man appeared around the side of the house. Sherlock startled as John tensed just ahead. He saw John’s hand dart to the small of his back, come up empty and drop back to his side. Reaching for the gun that wasn’t there. If John had been armed, Sherlock wondered if the man’s sudden appearance would have earned him a new orifice.

Oblivious to John’s reaction, the man barely glanced their way. He turned his focus to the operative accompanying them. “The exterior is secure,” he said, touching a finger to his ear. He repeated the words into the hidden earpiece. Nodding to the three of them, he disappeared around the opposite side of the house.

It was a moment before John unfroze. Sherlock watched him carefully, waiting for him to lead the way toward the front door. He did so with a wary glance at the corner of the building. “Anyone else going to pop out at me?” he asked. There was a hard edge to his voice that turned his question into a challenge.

The edge of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upward in a slight smile. The MI6 man with them seemed to have little in the way of a sense of humour, taking the question seriously.

“No, Captain Watson,” he replied in a curt voice. “You both may proceed into the house.” He shrugged their bags higher onto his shoulders. “I will attend to your things. Do not try to leave the property.” Ignoring John’s protests about his belongings, the man turned on his heel and strode off around the side of the house as well.

John stood on the front step and stared after him. He glanced at Sherlock and said, “You think they sleep in the backyard or something?”

The words were amusing, but Sherlock was too tired to show his appreciation. Instead, he lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug and pushed past John. The front door was unlocked, to his relief, and he entered the house without bothering to check the interior for threats. If Mycroft’s men said it was secure, then it was. Even if it wasn’t, Sherlock was far too exhausted to care. If someone attacked him right now, he’d welcome the assault as a chance to catch up on needed sleep.

Someone was waiting for them inside, but he wasn’t a threat, just another operative. Seated at a table in front of the open-concept kitchen, he rose as they entered, his posture stiff and formal.

“Welcome, Mister Holmes, Captain Watson.” Ignoring John’s annoyed grunt at the refuted title's continued use, the man glanced at Sherlock, dismissed him, and moved toward John.

John stiffened at once and backed away. Sherlock saw him again reaching for the gun that wasn’t there, the gesture accompanied by a frustrated grimace.

The MI6 agent paused and lifted an eyebrow. “I need to search you, Captain Watson.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Like hell,” he snapped. He backed away, his upper lip curling back in a fierce expression of refusal. Before he could speak further, Sherlock stepped forward. The movement put him between John and the MI6 man, and he didn’t miss the quiet, surprised intake of breath from John.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock said, offering a dazzling smile. The gesture irritated his throbbing head, but he didn’t let the expression slip.

The MI6 agent eyed him warily. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s protocol.”

Sherlock’s smile widened. It stretched his lips and made them ache. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your protocol,” he said, still with that shark’s grin in place. “John is unarmed. You don’t need to search him.”

Lips pursed, the man argued, “Sir, you can’t be certain of that.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “And yet, I am. If he was armed, you’d probably be dead.” He heard a quiet sound from John and resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder. “I know my brother pads your bank accounts with hush-hush money for jobs like these, so you’re very loyal to him. Well,” Sherlock amended, mouth twitching in feigned amusement, “as loyal as government money can buy. Regardless, I suggest you heed me just as you would him.”

The man bristled at his words. “Mister Holmes,” he began, only for Sherlock to interrupt in a sharp voice.

“Unless you’d prefer I reveal the secret you’ve been keeping?” When the threat earned him no visible reaction, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “I see. So my brother didn’t tell you about what I do.” This time, hearing John make another noise, Sherlock did glance back at him.

John met his eyes, his gaze wary but edged with anticipation.

Despite the pain pulsing through his skull, Sherlock felt a thrill of excitement. _Oh._ His lips curled into something close to a genuine smile at the look in John’s eyes. _This is going to be fun._

Turning back to the man, eyes darting over his form, Sherlock let fly. “Does your wife know you’re engaged in… hmm. Not one, but _three_ affairs?”

The MI6 agent paled. “How—?” One hand twitched at his side, near the gun holstered on his hip. Sherlock felt tension radiate off of John like a physical force. He felt it against his back, and his smile widened. _That’s it, John. Pick a side. Pick_ me.

Encouraged by the wave of protective agitation emanating from John, Sherlock barrelled onward. “I wonder what she would think if she found out that not only are you having said affairs, but that one is with her _mother?”_ Sherlock tapped an inquisitive finger to his bottom lip, forgetting that it was still split and healing. Ignoring the sting of pain, he narrowed his eyes. “After you’ve just had your first child, too. That’s rather rude of you.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Shall I continue?”

His throat bobbing in a loud swallow, the MI6 man’s hand fell still. He shook his head, eyes wide. “How do you know all of that?”

Sherlock grinned. “Ah, so it _is_ all true? I wasn’t sure about the mother. Thanks for the confirmation.” John made a quiet sound, something like a smothered laugh, and Sherlock bit back a laugh. He felt positively _giddy_ despite his exhaustion. The last remnants of colour in the MI6 agent’s face drained away. Feigning a yawn, Sherlock waved his fingers in his direction. “I’m bored now. You are excused."

He received a venomous look, but the man retreated. He disappeared out a side entrance, past the dining table and out into the dark, the door slamming hard behind him. Sherlock crossed the entryway and locked it before turning to John. Pressing his back to the door, he tilted his head in an inquisitive gesture and waited.

John did not disappoint.

“Blimey,” he said, breathing an incredulous little laugh at the end of the curse. “You’re kind of terrifying, you know that?”

Sherlock offered a pleased smile. A thrill rippled through him, and he felt a flash of heat rise in his cheeks at the comment. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

John’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. He didn’t look away, to Sherlock’s surprise, and they shared a silent moment of connection. With their eyes locked, it stretched out until Sherlock started to think everything might turn out alright. That John might just forgive him without further supplication on Sherlock’s part.

Then John’s expression closed off, and he looked away. The break of contact was like a physical blow, and Sherlock huffed out a breath. Arms folded over his chest, John clenched his jaw. “Any idea how long we’ll be here?” His voice was tense, making Sherlock sag in sudden exhaustion.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, wincing when John frowned. “At least a couple of days. Or until Mycroft figures out the next step.”

John offered a curt nod. “Right.” He looked around the room, eyeing the stainless steel appliances in the kitchen, the granite countertops. There was a bowl of fruit on the counter, and he strode toward it. Snagging an apple, he bounced it in his palm and glanced toward the stairs just past the kitchen. “Bedrooms upstairs, you think?”

Still leaning against the door, Sherlock shrugged. “Seems likely.”

John nodded again. “Okay.” He turned toward the stairs, paused and looked at Sherlock. It looked like he wanted to say something, but he hesitated. In the end, he didn’t speak. Instead, he rolled the apple against his fingers and offered a final nod before striding toward the steps and disappearing upstairs.

Sherlock waited until he heard the sound of a door closing on the second floor before he slumped. He let the momentum of his tired body pull him to the ground until his legs slid out in front of him. Head tilted back against the door, he closed his eyes and breathed out a loud, heavy breath. The events of the day — the bus ride, the attack at his rented rooms, contacting Mycroft, the consulate, their phone call, the ferry ride and Mycroft’s ambush of John — settled upon him like a ton of bricks. So much had happened in one day. With all of it came the reminder that Sherlock had barely slept over the past three days and hadn’t consumed more than tea since the day before. Even with the lack of food, Sherlock’s stomach roiled with nausea instead of hunger. He’d never been a big eater, and his body still didn’t seem to care much for sustenance, even now.

Sitting on the floor, he felt sick. His head pulsed with pain, body aching from exhaustion. He heard the water running through pipes and deduced that John must be taking a shower. Sherlock considered taking one as well and grimaced. Just the thought of standing for any length of time, even under hot, soothing water, seemed more than he could handle in his current state. Eyes closed, he slumped against the door and listened to the sound of water humming through the pipes within the walls.

It was a while before Sherlock finally stirred. When he did, his body was stiff, and rising to his feet was a battle against himself. His fatigue was so intense, so absolute, that Sherlock found himself stumbling as he mounted the stairs. He eventually gained the second floor, leaning heavily on the wall with the climb.

He paused on the landing. There were five doors, two on each side, one at the end of a short hall. It looked like it lead out onto a patio, the night stretching beyond the glass panes set within a pale wooden frame. One door was open to Sherlock’s upper right, steam coiling out and turning the hall humid. Gibraltar was hot, even at night, and the extra warmth threatened to double the layer of sweat on Sherlock’s skin, coaxed out by his laborious climb up the stairs.

The door immediately to his right was closed, and Sherlock resisted the urge to check within. Instead, he dropped his gaze to the floor and saw the faint light of a lamp from beneath. As he watched, it disappeared, and the slit between hardwood and door went dark. John must have chosen that room as his own.

Sherlock turned to the right and saw there were two bedrooms, both with their doors open. He hesitated before choosing the one across from John’s. Stumbling inside, feet dragging with exhaustion, Sherlock paused in the doorway, flicking on the light switch as he looked around.

The room was a decent size, sparsely furnished. A queen-sized bed on a dark wood platform frame dominated the space, the bedding muted dove-grey tones that complimented the walls, painted a slightly darker grey. Two end tables bracketed the bed, each with a lamp. Resting on one was a mobile phone, and two sets of clothing sat on the duvet covering the mattress.

Beside them was what looked like a folder. A dossier stamped with the word _C_ _onfidential._

Sherlock ignored it. He set it aside and reached for the clothes. Shaking them out, he saw they were his size and frowned, annoyed that Mycroft had guessed which room he’d choose. Unless John had considered this room first, seen the clothing, and searched for one with his own clothing? Had Mycroft provided John with clean clothes, as he had Sherlock? Or was he leaving John only the barest necessities, treating him like the rogue criminal he was?

The burning need to know the answer almost had Sherlock crossing the hall to knock on John’s door. But he stopped himself, grabbing the doorframe of his own room to keep himself in place. Instead of demanding answers from John, Sherlock turned to the bathroom. He didn’t shower but took advantage of the clean flannels, toothbrush and toothpaste to wash his face and brush his teeth.

When he turned to drop the rinsed toothbrush into a holder, he paused. There, freshly used and still damp, was John’s toothbrush. Sherlock stared at it, bemused by his sudden fascination with the mundane, common object. It was a moment before he slipped his own toothbrush into the holder space next to John’s. It felt deeply domestic, and Sherlock frowned at how his mind thrilled at the simpleness of the gesture. He dismissed it quickly, brow furrowed.

Clearly, he’d been alone far too long if he was getting this sentimental about sharing a toothbrush holder with a stranger. It was either that, or the concussion had shaken something loose in his head, and now he was no better than a dopey simpleton.

Sherlock splashed water on his face, combed a negligent hand through his hopelessly tangled curls, and admitted defeat. His headache was now so bad that his head seemed to ring with it. He left the bathroom and returned to his chosen room. Sherlock closed the door behind him and shifted the clean clothing to the bedside table, setting them atop the ignored folder. His eyes landed on and lingered on the manila cover, but he pushed aside the curiousity as another wave of exhaustion rolled through him.

Barely taking the time to strip out of his clothes and leave them on the floor, he slipped into the bed. The sheets were high quality, the thread count deliciously luxurious against his bare skin. Sherlock took a brief moment to appreciate lying in a bed that could accommodate his height and long limbs before shoving his face into a pillow and closing his eyes.

He tried to ignore the flashes of pain behind his eyelids. There was a brief, idle thought that this was one of the first times he and John had been apart in three days. Save for his time spent in the consulate, John had been almost always within arm’s reach since they met, and it felt strange knowing he was now an entire hallway and a room away.

Sherlock pushed the sentimental realization away with what little energy he had left and slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Guilt followed John upstairs as he fled the kitchen and Sherlock. The remnants of the shattered moment they’d shared clung to him like a bad smell, layered over the scent of cowardice and lingering anger that painted his skin. John pushed the feelings back as best he could, turning his focus to the second floor once he reached the top of the stairs.

There were four doors, all of them open. John poked his head into each, found three bedrooms and a bathroom. After he’d discovered clothing in what looked like his size folded on the bed in one of the rooms, he frowned. There was a phone as well, something he hadn’t expected, and no sign of his personal belongings. The MI6 agents must have stashed their duffles somewhere, and John forced back his frustration by heading to the bathroom for a shower.

With the door locked behind him, he stepped inside. The bathroom was over-the-top nice, with granite surfaces, heated tiles underfoot, and a stand-alone tub. John ignored the splendour. He stripped and beelined for the enormous standing shower. John was quick and efficient, hoping to get clean and finish before Sherlock ventured upstairs. With no way of knowing how long he had, John focused on cleaning his wounds, hissing at the hot wash of water over the still-open cuts and marks marking his skin.

Most of his injuries were healing well. Only the one on his thigh, the graze from a sniper’s bullet, still offered real pain. His twisted knee gave a little pang, but it seemed mild, well-rested by the drive from the ferry to the house.

John cleaned the scabbing wound on his thigh carefully, relieved when the new skin held. He washed his hair and the rest of his body and stepped out, shutting the water off behind him. He ruffled his hair, dried his skin and wrapped a towel around his waist. Before walking out into the hall, John cracked the door open and listened. Hearing nothing, he peered out and saw the hallway was empty.

He hurried to his room, closing the door behind him. Dressing in a clean pair of pants from the offered clothes, John dropped onto the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm but comfortable, the plush bed a sizeable queen with pale beige bedding. John took a moment to rub his hand over the soft coverlet, letting himself admire the splendour. It had been years since he slept in a good bed, and he hoped he’d be able to actually sleep.

It wasn't a given that he would. With the way his mind raced, John wasn’t sure he’d be able to shut his brain off long enough to rest. Even with the soothing heat of the shower, he felt restless and on edge. His earlier discomfort, and ensuing anger, hadn’t entirely dissipated, and they both crept back in now. With the quiet all around him, the feelings were insidious. They reminded him of Sherlock’s actions, his betrayal. The way he’d tried to brush off John’s fury, only to devolve with pain and exhaustion. He’d made it difficult for John to stay mad at him, but now that there was space between them, the anger flooded back. With the return of that anger came the realization that there was nowhere for John to go. No way to burn it off. He couldn’t leave, didn’t even have the luxury of taking a walk to clear his head.

John groaned. He was too tired for the turmoil of his thoughts, but they refused to leave him in peace. Elbows planted on his thighs, he dropped his face into his hands and closed his eyes. Focused on his breathing, John listened to the rush of his pulse. The hammer of it within his ears, the sensation of his chest rising and falling with his slow inhales, his ragged exhales.

It helped, but not nearly enough.

Hands dropping, John straightened and blinked. Waiting for his eyes to adjust, he flicked on one of the lamps next to the bed. Each of the bedrooms had a similar layout. Just as he’d seen in the room across the hall, there was a phone on the end table.

John reached for it, hesitating before his fingers curled around the device. Expecting it to be dead, he was pleasantly surprised to see it held a full charge and glanced at the outlet next to the bed. A charge cord hung from a wall block. It seemed Sherlock’s brother had thought of everything.

Frowning, John wondered if he would meet the man called Mycroft. If his apprehension was anything to go by, it seemed impossible to think that he wouldn’t. Part of him hoped he never would, while a louder, angrier part wished for it just so John would have the opportunity to punch Sherlock’s brother in his smug face.

The mental image made John’s pulse quicken, his anger threatening to rise once more, and he forced his mind in another direction.

Attention turning to the phone in his hand, John opened the home screen. To his surprise, there was no available sim card, though it was already connected to the house’s wifi. Trying to ignore the frustration that he couldn’t make calls — not that he had anyone to call — John opened the browser app. He hesitated.

The phone was likely monitored: he’d be a moron to believe otherwise. _Still,_ John thought, _does it matter?_ If he searched whatever he wanted, did it really matter if Sherlock’s brother knew? It wasn’t like John could just leave, not with his things confiscated and at least three MI6 agents watching the house.

Blowing a sigh out through his teeth, John lay back on the bed. He stayed on the covers, comfortable but not too comfortable, and clicked the URL bar.

After only a brief moment of deliberation, teeth pressing into his bottom lip, he typed in _Spain_. Navigating the links, John researched the roads from Gibraltar to Spain: the major airports, the fastest route from where he was to where he wanted to be. He read several websites on Finland, returning to the idea he’d had on the ferry.

By the time he’d reached the end of a fourth, his eyelids began to droop. John struggled to keep them open, but his vision blurred, turning the phone screen into a wash of light and colour. Admitting defeat, he set the phone on the end table. Hands clasped on his chest, John looked up at the ceiling with half-open eyes and pondered the turn his day had taken.

He’d gone into this insanity on Sherlock’s word. Had trusted him about the phone call and about leaving Morocco. Sherlock had promised to keep him safe and help John escape the country. Despite the forceful way he’d been brought to his current location, John _was_ safe. He couldn’t deny that. But nor could he dismiss the fact that Sherlock had kept the ambush to himself. He’d both kept and broken his word by choosing the path that best served his needs, John’s desires be damned. It was infuriating, exactly what John had feared, and completely understandable.

The worst of it was that John might have done the same if he’d been in Sherlock’s place. After all, John had been using him as well, using Sherlock and his connections to escape Morocco. And he’d done so by saying he’d stay and help past that point while having no intention to do so.

When he got right down to it, John was no better than Sherlock. But that didn’t make Sherlock’s betrayal any easier to swallow. If anything, the parallels between them made it more challenging. They proved to John something he’d feared: that Sherlock was like him. Almost _too_ much like him. That was a problem. John was a dangerous man. And if Sherlock was like him, then he was just as dangerous. John wasn’t sure he could accept the risk of working with an equal like that. He was okay with Sherlock being an equal _physically_ , able to hold his own and a clear asset. But someone who was as ruthless as John? Maybe even more so?

There was little comfort to be had in such equality.

Closing his eyes, John rocked his head back against the pillows and sighed. His thoughts were pointless. He was trapped, caught by Sherlock and his meddling brother with nowhere to go. It didn’t matter if Sherlock was too dangerous; John had no way of escaping.

The sound of steps on the stairs made his eyes flash open. Lying in the yellow glow of the lamp, John listened to Sherlock climbing the steps. He did so in fits and starts, his feet dragging until he reached the landing. John heard him pause and held his breath. When he didn’t hear Sherlock move, John leaned over and flicked off his lamp. Ears straining for even the softest sound, he waited until he heard Sherlock move down the hall.

John exhaled. The room was hot, the house nearly silent save for Sherlock’s quiet movements. Eyes open, staring at the ceiling, John listened to him in the room across the hall. He listened to him move into the bathroom. The sound of the sink hummed through the shared wall, and John slowly blinked his eyes closed.

He didn’t think he would sleep, but, with the sound of water creaking through the pipes, he did.

* * *

Sherlock woke to the sound of ringing. For a moment, he thought it was inside his skull. But as the edges of sleep cleared away, Sherlock pinpointed the noise. It came from an external source, and he sat up slowly, eyes drawn to the phone on the end table. He frowned, blinked, and grabbed for the mobile.

Before he answered, Sherlock already knew who would be on the other end. _“What,_ Mycroft?”

His brother breathed a low, annoyed sigh over the line. “Good morning to you, too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock wriggled back against the pillows and leaned into the headboard. “I was sleeping.”

“I’ve been up for two hours already.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock glanced at his watch. It was a little past 9 am. “Must be a real struggle for you, what with your cushy desk job and all the employees at your constant beck and call. Would you like a medal?” he asked sarcastically.

Another sigh. “Charming.” Mycroft cleared his throat, and Sherlock heard the change in his tone within the noise: back to business. As usual. “Regarding your companion.”

Sherlock’s teeth clamped together with a click. It was a struggle to pry them open again. Eyes narrowed, he said, _“Leave it,_ Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

“You’ve done enough.” Sherlock glared at the coverlet beneath him. Digging the fingers of one hand into the fabric, gripping the phone against his ear with the other, his jaw clenched. “Let me handle what comes next.”

“I can’t do that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat upright. “Excuse me?” He moved too fast, and the room spun. Closing his eyes, palm pressed to his now-throbbing forehead, Sherlock snapped, “You _will_ keep your sticky, meddling fingers out of this, Mycroft. Or I’ll—”

His brother interrupted the unvoiced threat with a scoff. “Or you’ll what, Sherlock? You have nothing to threaten me with. No power that doesn’t first pass through my hands.”

The words stung. Partly because they were correct and because it was cruel of Mycroft to hold his weaknesses over him. Sherlock forced his eyes open, hand blocking one and cutting off half his vision. Things looked a little grey at the edges. “I have John.”

He could hear the amusement in Mycroft’s exhale. “Do you really, Sherlock?” There was a brief silence, followed by, “I’ve sent you the logs from his browser searches last night. If you check, you’ll see that he was searching up possible escape routes. You can’t trust him, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice lowered with his growing intensity. “I am your only real ally. Don’t place your trust in this man. Please.”

Sherlock frowned at the plea. It sounded genuine, a rarity for his politically-minded, mask-wearing brother. Sherlock felt his pulse quicken in response to the gravity in Mycroft’s voice. He took a moment to process the words, trying to think past the throb of pain hammering at his temples. When Sherlock finally replied, he pushed the response through his gritted teeth, growling, “Stay out of it, Mycroft.” He moved to end the call, but Mycroft called him back.

“Sherlock.”

Phone pressed hard to his ear, Sherlock snapped, “What?”

There was a pause, Mycroft hesitating. He started to speak, stopped, and began again. “I will be keeping a close eye on the situation. If I’m not pleased with what I find, there will be consequences. And Sherlock? Those consequences won’t be yours.”

“Bugger off, Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed. He ended the call with a forceful smash of his thumb against the mobile screen. It was nowhere near as satisfying as hanging up a receiver, and he hurled the phone across the room for good measure. It skidded across the carpet and into the wall with a pleasing _thud._ Sherlock didn’t bother to check if it was broken. Dropping back to the mattress, he pulled a pillow over his head and groaned.

Why did nothing ever go the way he needed it to? His plans never seemed to pan out, to his endless frustration. And Mycroft was right. Sherlock had little in the form of support, allies, and help.

His brother’s meddling was as unwelcome as it was infuriating.

Head still throbbing, Sherlock swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. He moved as if to rise, caught sight of the dossier on the bedside table and paused. Brow furrowed, Sherlock stared at the folder, warring with himself.

In the end, he couldn’t help but reach for it.

Snagging the file, Sherlock slid back up to the headboard. Knees bent, he opened the folder and set it against the shelf of his thighs. The first page was a photo of John. He was looking into the distance, wearing a dark jacket, his hair cut shorter than Sherlock had ever seen it. There was far less silver, the colour closer to a dishwater-blond than the grey it was now. Cropped at upper chest level, the photo looked like it had been taken close-up, but Sherlock would bet his meagre savings that it had been far enough away for John not to notice the surveillance.

Though Sherlock squinted at the background, it was far too blurry for him to make out the location. Despite the shorter hair, the lack of greys, Sherlock was sure the photo couldn’t be more than a few years old. Something about John’s expression looked hard, closed off. If Sherlock looked close enough, he thought maybe there was a sort of sadness in his eyes. In the slightly downturned curl of his mouth. Something that made him look a little… lost.

Sherlock grunted and rolled his eyes at his own sentiment. He moved on from the photo. Printed below it was John’s full name: _Captain John Hamish Watson._

Sherlock stared. John. John Hamish Watson. The Watson he wasn’t surprised at: the MI6 men had referred to John as Captain Watson multiple times. Having deduced the Captain part for himself upon their first meeting, Sherlock wasn’t off-guard there. But… _Hamish?_ And _John?_

“His name is _actually_ John,” he said aloud to the room, dumbfounded. John had given his real name to the man at the bus depot. He hadn’t even bothered to correct Sherlock when he thought it was fake. Suddenly, John’s odd look when Sherlock insulted his ‘fake name’ and called it dull made sense. All along, he’d known John’s real name and hadn’t even _realized_. Some genius he was.

Scowling, Sherlock thought, _there’s_ always _something._

He flipped to the next page. There was John’s date of birth — April 23rd, 1971 — where he’d been born, his parent’s names. Hamish and Jean Watson. Well, that explained the middle name. Scottish, if Sherlock wasn’t mistaken. Though, after failing to realize John’s first name wasn’t actually false, Sherlock couldn’t be sure anymore.

The first few pages of the dossier outlined John’s childhood. A quiet child with anger problems that rose in his early teens. Child services called several times to his childhood home for reports of neglect and abuse. Nothing sexual, but it appeared John’s father had been a man with heavy hands and a proclivity for drink. That explained John’s sister’s own alcoholism. It also revealed the depths of John’s reticence, his slow-to-trust personality. Based on what Sherlock read here, the torture in Afghanistan had only exacerbated a pre-existing temperament of wariness and distrust.

There was John’s parents' death, his time in medical school, and his enlistment with the army. Notes about his time in basic training, his performance in the field, his promotion from new recruit and upward, finally to Captain. Reading the folder, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a flicker of discomfort. This felt worse than if he’d spied on John in the shower or something as socially unacceptable. This was John’s entire life, laid out at Sherlock’s fingertips, compiled by Mycroft and given to him without John’s consent.

Still, Sherlock found himself unable to stop reading. He flipped through the folder, pausing when he reached a page of handwritten notes: John’s psych evaluation following his torture. From the sound of it, the initial eval was completed when he was still heavily sedated after his rescue. John’s responses to the questions asked of him made little sense, and the diagnosis was that he likely had PTSD. In following evaluations, that diagnosis was confirmed, the psych consult noting the pervasive level of John’s trauma, both from childhood and in the army.

After the psychiatric notes were pages of medical forms. They documented John’s state upon arrival at the trauma unit on base. They were blunt and to-the-point, his condition outlined in thick, heavy medical jargon. With his learned knowledge and first-hand experience of crime scenes, Sherlock had no trouble deciphering the notes. What he read made his stomach twist. Broken bones, internal bleeding, head trauma… compiled together like this, John’s ordeal at the hand of men he’d trusted sounded far worse. John had clearly glossed over the details, sparing Sherlock the in-depth version. Reading it now, laid out like this… it made the scars on John’s back seem like small potatoes in comparison.

Sickened by the new knowledge, Sherlock flipped past the rest of the medical notes without reading further. He didn’t need to know the details and doubted John would want him to know. He didn’t think John would want him to read about how they’d bent John’s fingers back on his right hand until the bones cracked. How they’d drawn a knife over his spine, nearly severing every nerve, but refusing to lest John lose the connection between brain and body that let him feel pain.

Tasting bile in the back of his throat, Sherlock paged to a set of notes stamped with Mycroft’s official seal. Here, he read about John’s life after his discharge, his time after leaving London behind. How he’d disappeared for several months, lost until they discovered him in Australia. From there, they’d tracked him to Russia, lost him for nearly a year, only for John to turn up again in Bolivia. It looked like they’d kept passive tabs on him over the years. There were long gaps between sightings, and John aged noticeably faster in each photo. After they tracked him to Thailand, the trail went dark.

On the last page, there was a short note: _Subject is highly skilled and dangerous. Multiple illegal kills enacted through employment with hostile, terrorist agencies. Passive watch continued until status change._

Added beneath that, in fresh ink, was Mycroft’s neat, looping handwriting.

_Last known location: Morocco, en route to Gibraltar with protected liability. Detainment plan in place. Status updated from passive watch to active containment._

Sherlock’s breath rushed out through his teeth. He jolted, and his hands curled into fists, crinkling the pages until he forced himself to relax. His grip shook severely enough to force him to close the folder when the words began to swim.

 _Detainment plan. Active containment._ The words echoed through Sherlock's head like the dying fade of a scream.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock set the folder on the bed and leaned back against the headboard. A growing sense of horror rose in his chest, making his brow furrow, his lips tighten. His mouth tasted bitter, and he bit back the urge to retch.

He _had_ betrayed John, and far worse than Sherlock initially realized. And it hadn’t even been on purpose.

The notes told an undeniable story: Mycroft had no intention of letting John disappear. Bringing him here, Sherlock had ensured John's imprisonment by leading John into his brother’s trap. He could see no other possibility. Mycroft clearly planned to keep John on British soil, ending any chance John had of escaping punishment for his crimes.

John’s worse fear was being realized, and it was happening at Sherlock’s own hands.


	19. Essential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes the best of a bad situation, and Sherlock chooses a side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has lost track of the story's timeframe, we are only on day four of these two knowing one another 😅

John opened his eyes to the pale light of the rising sun and the sound of a bird singing outside the window. He blinked, frowning at the ceiling until the lingering haze of sleep cleared from his vision. With the gradual clarity came the events of the previous day, rushing back like the tide over the beach, eroding the fading sense of peace granted to John by uninterrupted sleep.

To his surprise, John realized it was one of the first times he’d slept through the night without a nightmare since Afghanistan.

He considered trying to go back to sleep, but his internal clock was too ingrained. Years of waking early made it nearly impossible to indulge in a lie-in, even when he wanted to. If he tried, John knew he wouldn’t manage it. Instead, he sat up. Propped on one elbow, John scrubbed a hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes. Shifting his legs out from under the covers, he rose with a groan, back protesting. His body was both comforted by the soft bed and stiff with lingering tension from days of stress. Hands pushed up toward the ceiling, John tilted his head from one side to the other, stretching the kinks from his muscles. His back cracked, his bad shoulder popped, and he grunted at the reminders that his body was only getting older.

Arms falling back to his side, John moved to the window. It was early — a clock next to the bed said 7 am — and the sun was already beating down on this part of the world. Looking out the window, John let himself admire the greenery, the trees and the distant wash of waves near the horizon. The scene was peaceful, idyllic, almost enough to convince him that he was safe here.

A man in a black suit appeared in the yard, and John’s sense of comfort shattered. The stark reminder of his captivity was absolute, making him step back from the window with a scowl. John admonished himself for letting his guard down, even for a few seconds of relaxation. He would do well to remember that he wasn’t a guest here. No matter how lovely the house was, how green the yard, John wasn’t here of his own accord.

A prison was just that, no matter how comfortable it appeared. Without knowing how long he might be here, John thought he’d do well to stay alert. What was welcoming now might not be so welcoming later, and he would be safer if he kept his captive status in mind.

John turned back to the room. The clothes he’d found on the bed the night before were on top of a dresser. The carpet hushed his footsteps as he crossed the room, reaching out to pick up a shirt. It was a button-up, pale blue and likely his size. John frowned, shaking the shirt out of its fold and holding it up against his bare chest to gauge the fit. The fabric was sturdy yet soft, probably made of some material far nicer than anything he’d ever owned.

Struck by both an intense reluctance and a desire to refuse the offering, John glanced around the room. His eyes landed on the clothes he’d stripped off the day before. Even standing at a distance, he imagined he could smell the sweat and stress radiating off of them. Just the idea of pulling them back on made him grimace, and John held up the blue shirt with a sigh. With his belongings confiscated, it seemed he had little choice but to accept the provided clothing.

John dressed quickly. Jaw clenched, he pulled on an undershirt and the button-up, tucking the hem into a pair of crisp, dark blue jeans. There were socks and new shoes, a pair of dressy boots that made John snort. They wouldn’t last a week in his work. He shoved them under the bed and pulled on the socks. Finding a belt in the dresser, he slipped it through the loops of the jeans.

There was a mirror hanging on one wall, next to the door, and John took a moment to study his appearance. He combed his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair, fixing it into place with the longer part swooped to one side. It wasn’t quite perfect, mussed from having slept on it damp, but John thought he looked a far cry from the tired, angry man he’d been last night. Now, he just looked annoyed and sleep-rumpled.

He wasn’t entirely sure if it was an improvement.

Dressed and as prepared for the day as he ever would be, John made the bed. The chore was mindless, ingrained into him as routine from his time in the military and executed with the rigidity of someone accustomed to verbal abuse from staff sergeants. Finished, he crossed the room, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. It was silent and empty. Across from him, Sherlock’s door was still closed. John narrowed his eyes, stared for a moment, and turned on his heel before heading to the bathroom. There, he fixed his hair with a bit of gel he found in the medicine cabinet, washed his face, and blinked at his reflection.

His eyes still looked tired, a little dark and bloodshot, but a full night’s sleep had done him good. The cut on his cheek was healing well, the rough edges of the scabbing injury blurred by his deepening facial hair. No longer just a dusting of stubble, it was beginning to thicken to a scruffy beard. John frowned and rubbed his hand over the hair, remembering how he’d thought about growing it out, back in Tangier. He thought he might still keep it, though it would need some tidying up.

A quick search unearthed an electric razor in one of the vanity drawers. John was pleased to see it was well cared for, the blade oiled and sharp. He let his focus drift, mind quiet as the buzzing sound of the razor soothed his restless thoughts. John carefully cleaned up the edges of his scruff, shaving his neck clean, cutting the growth back until it fit the shape of his jaw. He tidied a few stray areas, squinting as he evened out the length.

When he was finished, turning off the razor and setting it on the counter, John studied his reflection. The shave looked smooth. The early beard no longer looked like a scruffy mess. Now, it was a sharp, contour-fitting compliment to his face. Or, so John thought. If he was allowed to think so highly of himself, he felt he looked rugged. For a moment, he found himself wondering what Sherlock would think. Would he approve? Did he even like facial hair? Sherlock had a bit of growth of his own, more patchy stubble than anything like a beard. It looked a mess, in John’s opinion. Following on the heels of that thought, rising unbidden in his open mind, John wondered how it would feel if Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s beard.

How it might feel if John rubbed his stubbled cheeks against the pale skin of Sherlock’s inner thighs.

He didn’t catch the thought in time. John’s cock twitched in his jeans, startling him out of his idle, wandering fantasies. He scoffed. Shook his head and scowled at his reflection. _Pull it together, Watson,_ John warned himself, staring hard into the mirror. Now was not the time to start thinking with his cock instead of his head.

Clearing his throat, angry at both himself and his idle thoughts, John turned his attention to cleaning up the mess he’d made. He tidied with a single-minded tenacity, teeth gritted against his own embarrassment and the betrayal of his body and mind.

By the time he was finished, leaving no sign that he’d shaved, John’s head felt clearer. He put the idle fantasy down to stress and a very, _very_ long dry spell. It was nothing more. Sherlock was attractive, John was horny and lonely and tense, and his cock was, well, a cock. It reacted — often stupidly — to things John wouldn’t otherwise. It was nothing more than that. A standard, biological reaction to an unmet need. He didn’t have _feelings_ for Sherlock: John didn’t even _know_ Sherlock. John reminded himself Sherlock wasn’t to be trusted or lusted after, and that was that.

His cock didn’t seem to agree, and John pressed a quelling palm against the hinting swell in his jeans. Eyeing his reflection, John straightened his shoulders and glared. “Don’t lose your head now, Watson,” he said to himself, lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re a grown man, not a bloody teenager.” He turned on his heel and left the bathroom. Even with the pep-talk, John couldn’t help the little sidelong glance he cast at Sherlock’s closed door. Shaking his head and forcing his focus forward, John trotted down the stairs, to the first floor.

He trailed into the kitchen, found it empty and paused. His eyes darted to the front door. For a moment, John was struck by the overwhelming urge to take a chance and attempt to escape. If he sprinted, didn’t look back, he might make it. Even with the wall enclosing the yard, he might get over it and clear before anyone noticed.

A shadow passed by the window, one of the MI6 agents striding through the yard. The sight of him, and the gun on his hip, deflated the last of John’s bravado. His shoulders sagged.

He wasn’t going anywhere. At least, not on his own, and not like this, dressed in clothes that weren’t his own.

John sighed and turned to the kitchen. Stomach growling, hands flexing restlessly at his sides, he beelined for the fridge. Food, he needed food. Whatever might happen today, John still needed to eat. The apple he’d snagged last night hadn’t been nearly enough, and he’d woken up with an angry, empty stomach.

The fridge was well-stocked, to his grudging pleasure. Trying not to feel indebted to Sherlock and his brother, John pulled out a carton of eggs. He found bread in a box, a toaster in the cupboard. Busying himself with the mundane function of cooking breakfast, John waited for the other shoe to drop.

* * *

Still reeling from the information held in the dossier, it was a while before Sherlock managed to escape his head. He felt stunned, floored by his own brother’s treachery. No matter how Sherlock looked at the situation, it was impossible to see a way out. By trying to keep John safe, he’d led him right into the belly of the beast. Just as John had said Sherlock would.

John had been right not to trust him, and here was the proof.

By the time he managed to make it out of bed and headed for the hallway, the shock had faded to a heavy dread. It sank deep into his body, slowing Sherlock’s steps until he was in the bathroom and resisting the urge to sag against the door. Finding a modicum of strength, he straightened, squared his shoulders, and stripped on his way into the shower.

The standing shower was huge, with tiled walls and floor and stocked with all his preferred products. It seemed Mycroft, in addition to working out how to effectively capture a dangerous mercenary, really had thought of everything.

Sherlock tried not to luxuriate too deeply in the familiar scent of his favourite body wash. Try as he might to maintain his angry tension, it slowly eased away beneath the aroma of jasmine and orange citrus. What the comforting scent-memory couldn’t clear, the hot, steamy environment took care of. It wasn’t long before Sherlock was tilting his face up into the spray, letting the warm water wash away the thudding in his skull, reducing it to a dull ache. He washed his body, scrubbing head to toe, and meticulously worked the tangles from his curls. It felt like ages since he’d allowed himself such luxury, and Sherlock took advantage with a pang of guilt.

His head still hurt, and even if he still wasn’t at his best, that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to feel closer to his usual self.

Skin scrubbed pink, tingling and buzzing with cleanliness, Sherlock finally shut off the water and stepped out into the steamy bathroom. He dried his body and squeezed the moisture from his hair. Leaving his curls to air dry, he wrapped a fluffy towel around his waist. Resisting the urge to groan at the simple comfort of soft fabric against his skin, Sherlock moved to the mirror. It was fogged, and he rubbed it clear with the side of his hand, squinting at his reflection.

Most of the bruises on his face had faded to a sickly yellow. There was a darker aura on his upper temple, where the gun had connected with his forehead and gifted him his current concussion. Sherlock flipped a lock of hair over it, grimaced at his own vanity, and shoved it back.

His hair was longer than he preferred it, but not so long as to drive him mad. The beginnings of stubble on his cheeks and chin were far worse. Staring at the growth, Sherlock found himself envying John’s ability to grow an attractive beard in a few days, where Sherlock only grew his current patchy monstrosity. John’s facial hair looked soft, even when scruffy and un-groomed. Sherlock’s looked rough and scratchy. More than once, Sherlock had found himself wondering how it might feel to stroke his fingers through John’s beard and feel the hard, sharp line of his jaw beneath.

Sherlock pushed the thoughts aside. Pointless drivel. They were a far cry from the almost-ease of their companionship of before. Now, John was mad at him, and for a good reason. Sherlock’s wishful thinking was moronic at best and torture at worst, and he’d do well to avoid thinking any further in that direction.

Eyes dropping to the counter, he saw an electric razor, plugged in and charging. Sherlock didn’t recall seeing it there the night before. He’d been in a poor state, but he was reasonably certain it was new. Reaching out, Sherlock plucked it from the charging cradle and stared at the shaver. When he’d left his room, he’d seen that John’s was empty, the bed made with military precision, the door left open. He’d clearly risen some time ago, shaved and dressed and gone downstairs. If the property hadn’t been crawling with MI6 agents, Sherlock might have worried about John doing a runner. But, with nowhere to go and no way of leaving, he must still be somewhere within the house.

John had no plan, no options, no upper hand, and Sherlock didn’t need to worry about him disappearing.

Sherlock frowned. Glancing at his reflection again, he flipped on the razor and set to cleaning his face of the abhorrent smatterings of patchy hair covering his cheeks. It didn’t take long, but the mindless work helped his mind settle. It let his thoughts untangle, spooling out until things started to make sense. Gradually, the rough edges of an idea rose.

If Mycroft insisted on turning John into an enemy, Sherlock would make one out of himself. He saw now that his actions, selfishly chosen and rashly executed, had done more harm than good. Sherlock had mistakenly thought Mycroft was the one he should rely on, the one to trust when it had been John all along. John, who had kept Sherlock safe, even when doing so put him at worse risk than if he’d simply left Sherlock behind. John, who had, despite his fury, heard Sherlock out — at least partially. John, who might be willing to give him a second chance.

If Mycroft got his way, John wouldn’t dare trust either of the Holmes brothers ever again. Sherlock wanted John to trust him. If that meant making an enemy of his brother, sacrificing one ally for another, Sherlock would do it. Without thought, without question.

The decision inspired a strange sort of ease. With his face clean-shaven and smooth once more, Sherlock set the shaver back in its charge cradle. Hands latching onto the edge of the bathroom counter in a vice-grip, he pursed his lips. Sherlock had chosen poorly by siding with his brother, but it had been a necessary choice at the time, required to get them both safely out of Morocco. Now that they were out, John was who he needed to focus on. John would get him farther than Mycroft could ever hope. More than that, John was the one Sherlock _wanted_. Not just as an ally, but as everything. Sherlock could see that now, make sense of it when his headache was no more than a background hum, and he was no longer in immediate danger.

His hands tensed, grip tightening before he released the counter and stepped back. The conversation he needed to have with John wouldn’t be an easy one. It would mean revealing that he’d read John’s file without his consent. It meant admitting he’d not only forced John into this trap but that it was far more extensive than either of them could have known.

It meant Sherlock had to come clean. It meant no more secrets. For someone who played things close, who relied on himself more often than others, the thought made Sherlock uneasy. But John might understand. He was similar, embracing isolation over companionship. He was a man who kept his mouth shut and trusted himself over others. If anyone understood the risk Sherlock took by laying out his proverbial cards on the table, it was John. 

Or so Sherlock hoped.

He left the bathroom, finding the hallway empty as he made his way back to the bedroom. Closing the door behind him, Sherlock hung the damp towel from his waist on the bed frame and turned to the clothing set aside for him. Everything was to his size, made of the usual luxurious, expensive materials he was used to. He chose his outfit with care, setting aside a crisp dress shirt. A deep blue, it reminded him of John’s eyes, and Sherlock tried not to linger on the sentiment when he chose it. Instead, Sherlock lied to himself, citing colour psychology. People responded well to things that reminded them of comfort. Things they found familiar. Likely, at least one of John’s parents had the same eye colour. And if the blue complimented Sherlock’s own grey-blue-green eyes and contrasted with his dark hair? Well, that was just an added bonus.

Sherlock dressed meticulously, pairing the blue shirt with a black suit jacket and matching trousers. He took care to button the cuffs, straightening the sleeves and smoothing out even the smallest wrinkles from the fabric. Sherlock did up every button on the shirt but the top two, leaving his neck free and bared. The suit jacket he left open.

There was a mirror in the room, across from the foot of the bed. Dressed in the chosen clothes, his hair nearly dry, Sherlock frowned at his reflection. He smoothed a hand over the dress shirt, straightened the hem of his jacket and pursed his lips. Aside from the injuries on his face and the length of his curls, Sherlock thought he looked more like himself. Thought he looked like the man he’d been before all this began. The Sherlock of before: before Moriarty, before the fall, before meeting John.

It was both comforting and terribly strange to finally recognize his reflection.

Taking one last look, pausing to brush a rogue curl behind his ear, Sherlock nodded to himself. Before leaving the bedroom, he flipped open the dossier on John and tore out the last page. Folded it into a neat little square and tucked it into a pocket. He stepped out into the hall and paused at the top of the stairs. Hearing the quiet clink of a fork against a plate from below, Sherlock pulled in a breath. He braced himself for whatever awaited him and made his way downstairs.

* * *

John listened to the sounds of Sherlock waking above. He heard footsteps, running water, and, once, the sound of something hitting a wall. John chose not to dwell on the last, settling himself at the table with a plate of eggs and beans on toast. He’d made a pot of coffee, newly ground beans and freshly brewed. With the cup cradled between his hands, John inhaled the heady aroma, sipped, and bit back a groan.

An unwilling prisoner he might be, but at least the coffee was fucking fantastic.

Looking out the window across from where he sat, John watched the slow flicker of leaves in a tree just outside whenever an errant breeze flitted by. Occasionally, an armed agent passed the tree, interrupting his view. John tried to track their routine, but it never seemed to fall into a pattern.

Those MI6 men were frustratingly well trained.

John rose and turned toward the kitchen to refill his coffee when a sound made him pause. Eyes narrowed, he listened closely. It was repeated, and John identified it as the creak of a step, followed by a quick trot as someone descended the stairs. Given that it was just him and Sherlock in the house, there wasn’t anyone else it could possibly be but Sherlock.

He rounded the corner into the dining area and halted when he caught sight of John. They stared at one another, John with an empty mug in his hand, and Sherlock with a cautious look on his face.

Sherlock was the first to speak, breaking the silence with a rough cough as he cleared his throat. “You shaved,” he said.

John blinked at the unexpected comment. Regaining his wits, he tipped his head in a small nod. “I did,” John replied, uncertain what else to say. He looked down at his empty mug, frowned, and glanced back up at Sherlock. “Tidied up a bit.”

Lips pursed, Sherlock returned the nod. “It’s…” He paused, squinted past John before looking back at his face. “It’s good,” he finished, wetting his lips. There was a hint of colour rising high on his cheekbones, and John didn’t think it was part of the fading bruises.

A surprising flicker of pleasure flared in his chest. John forced it back before it could spread and radiate through his body like a sickness. It was followed by a brief incredulity. Here was Sherlock, passively complimenting John’s appearance when he looked like… well, when he looked like a fucking fashion model. He was wearing a trim suit jacket with matching dress pants and a deep blue shirt that looked to have been tailored within an inch of its life. If John narrowed his eyes, he could see one of the buttons straining. The top two were undone, revealing Sherlock’s neck and throat and a spattering of moles.

John forced his eyes away, worried the sight might unlock the carefully shut gate he’d closed firmly on his lust that morning.

“Thanks,” he managed, clearing his throat when his voice emerged as a rasp. Swallowing, he forced a tight little smile. “You, uh. You clean up well.” Ignoring the stunned look that passed over Sherlock’s face, John turned on his heel and beelined for the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked, refusing to look back over his shoulder to see if Sherlock registered the question.

It was a moment before Sherlock replied. When he did, his voice sounded strained. He cleared his throat as John waited and stared resolutely at the coffee pot, pouring dark, aromatic liquid into his empty mug. “Please.”

John nodded and slid a second mug out of a cupboard. “Alright.” He stared at the remnants of his breakfast in the frying pan. “Hungry?”

Sherlock hummed, settling himself at the table John had just abandoned. “No, thank you.” It sounded forcefully polite, and John shot him a glance. Sitting in the chair across from John’s, Sherlock was looking out the window with a small crease marring his brow.

Looking back to his task, John asked, “Milk? Sugar?”

He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him and didn’t look up to meet the intensity of his gaze. “Two sugar, please.”

John grunted his response. Silence fell between them again, and he felt Sherlock’s gaze shift away. He stirred two sugars into Sherlock’s coffee, splashed a bit of milk into his own and returned the carton to the fridge. With a mug in each hand, John crossed the kitchen and sank into his seat. He slid one of the cups across the table, leaving it before Sherlock.

Turning his attention away from the window, Sherlock reached out to wrap his long fingers around the offering. John slid his hands back to his side of the table and busied them with finishing the last of his breakfast. He refused to let himself linger on the way Sherlock’s fingertips tapped against the side of the mug.

“Thank you.”

John scooped beans into his mouth with the last of his toast and nodded without looking up. He could feel Sherlock watching him again and kept his eyes on his plate. John chewed slowly, buying himself time. The current Sherlock seated before him looked far more like the one he’d been tasked with extracting, and John wasn’t sure he was ready to face him in all his force.

When he did look up, Sherlock’s eyes were softer than he’d expected but still intense. The fine wrinkles bracketing his full lips betrayed a hint of lingering pain from his concussion. Otherwise, he looked poised, his dark hair styled into a casual chaos that John couldn’t help but find fetching.

He pushed his thoughts into safer territory with a scowl.

Sherlock pulled in a breath and leaned forward. John startled, thinking he’d somehow broadcast his thoughts aloud. But Sherlock just tapped a finger against the tabletop, sipped his coffee, and studied John for a long, silent moment.

John sat still and endured the scrutiny for as long as possible until he felt the rising urge to squirm. He squashed it at once and frowned. “What?”

His fingers tapping out a complicated rhythm, Sherlock sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and pressed his teeth hard into the soft flesh. Feeling his eyes dropping to track the motion, John forced his gaze back to Sherlock’s. His frown deepened when Sherlock didn’t reply right away. John took a drink of his coffee, burnt his tongue and grimaced before Sherlock finally spoke.

“I need to speak with you. In private.”

John stiffened, hand frozen in the process of setting his cup back on the table. “Isn’t _this_ private?” he asked once he’d regained his equilibrium, waving a hand between them.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. His fingers tapped faster. “No,” he said in a flat voice.

Setting his mug down, John slid his hands over the table and dropped them into his lap. “Did you have somewhere in mind?” he asked, buying himself time as he tried to understand what exactly Sherlock was implying. The kitchen wasn’t private? Why? Because of the men outside? Was the house bugged?

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upward in a wry half-smile as if he could read John’s thoughts. “Exactly,” he said in reply to John’s unasked question. “And, yes, I do.” The last was to John’s spoken ask.

John pursed his lips in thought. Slowly, he tipped his head in the approximation of a nod. “Where?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. He studied John’s face, tapped his fingers against the table, and nodded. Reluctantly, John stood. He hesitated before scooping up his plate and moving into the kitchen. Busying himself with washing the few dishes, John took his time.

When he wandered back to the table, he picked up his coffee and sipped it while silently regarding Sherlock. He received a single raised eyebrow in return.

“What?” Sherlock asked, a small, confused tilt turning down the corners of his lips.

John shrugged. “Thought you wanted to talk somewhere private.”

Something fleeting flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. It disappeared quickly, and he rose to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste. John schooled away a flicker of amusement and swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee.

“You’re willing to hear me out?” There was a breathless quality to Sherlock’s voice that made John’s skin prickle.

Forcing back the tingling sensation, John warily tipped his head in another small nod. “Thought that was fairly clear.”

To his surprise, Sherlock flashed a quick, relieved smile. John’s answer seemed to have imbued him with some frenetic energy, and he moved around the table with several enthusiastic strides. “Wonderful,” he breathed and then, to John’s shock, seized his arm and tugged John out of the dining area.

Barely retaining his grip on the hot mug of coffee, John sputtered in indignant surprise, already halfway down the hallway before he dug in his heels and pulled Sherlock to a stop. He managed to set his coffee cup down on a small table, freeing his hands.

“What,” he began in a low, hard voice, “do you think you’re doing?”

Fingers curled around John’s forearm, Sherlock huffed. “You agreed to talk in private.”

“Yeah, I agreed to _talk,_ not to be manhandled down the hallway!” John snapped, wrenching his arm free. “Warn a bloke before you decide to drag him around, yeah?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine.” With a fake smile, he reached out and firmly gripped John’s arm again. Looking John in the face, Sherlock said, “I’ll be dragging you down the hallway now, John. Alright?” Without waiting for an answer, he did just that. John, bemused by the exchange, let himself be led.

The journey wasn’t far: Sherlock’s ‘private place to talk’ turned out to be the first-floor bathroom. He steered John inside with a nudge at his back and shut the door behind them. Flicking on the light, he crossed the room and turned on the shower while John looked around. This bathroom was much smaller than the one upstairs, with a sink, toilet, and combination shower-tub. The somewhat cramped space quickly filled with steam from the hot water, making John blink as the air turned thick and humid.

“The bathroom?” he said once Sherlock turned to face him. _“That’s_ your private place to talk?”

Sherlock blinked. “Since we can’t leave the property and men are patrolling the yard, this seemed the most logical place to speak if we don’t want to be overheard.”

Leaning his back against the door, John folded his arms over his chest. “You think the house is bugged?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, and he snorted. “Of course it is, John, don’t be stupid.” Catching the way John bristled, Sherlock winced. “I didn’t mean… never mind.” Taking a deep breath, Sherlock changed topics so fast, John’s head threatened to spin. “You’re still angry with me.”

John shot him an incredulous look. “Well spotted,” he replied in a dry voice. “What gave it away?”

Instead of the venom John expected, Sherlock pursed his lips and kept his mouth shut. Surprised by the self-control, John shrugged and didn’t press. He waited until Sherlock spoke again. “I know what I did wasn’t right.”

John stiffened. He didn’t move for a long moment, staring at Sherlock as he let the statement sink in. The bathroom’s steamy atmosphere was beginning to make every breath feel heavy, thick with dissipating warmth. John’s fingers twitched at his side, curling into slow fists before flexing outward again. “Do you?” he asked, slowly, his words careful.

Sherlock let out a loud breath. “Yes.” His eyes sidled away, and a small crease marred the skin between his brow. After a silent moment, he looked back at John, searching his face. John waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, and John sighed.

“Why are you telling me this? Is this you apologizing again?”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. Catching John’s irritated expression, he hurried to add, “Well, yes. But I don’t just want to apologize. I want to explain.”

Body tensing, John bristled. His jaw clamped shut with a click of teeth, and it took a moment of forceful breathing through his nose before it relaxed enough for him to speak again. “You already did that. Didn’t make things any better.”

A flicker of frustration passed over Sherlock’s face. “No, I don’t mean…” Shaking his head, he scrubbed an angry hand through his hair. The carefully created disarray shifted into a mess, making John bite back a smirk. The steam was beginning to twist the ends of Sherlock’s curls, making Sherlock look a little like a mad man.

John tried not to find it endearing. After a second of irritation, he managed. “Then what _do_ you mean, Sherlock?” he asked. “Please — share with the class.”

Sherlock huffed and plunked himself down on the closed toilet seat. Hands on his knees, his gaze on the tiled floor, he said, “I want us to work together.”

 _God,_ thought John, _not this again._

Crossing his arms over his chest, John tilted his head with a pensive expression. Pushing aside his anger for the moment, John sighed. “So you’ve said. Repeatedly. Since I’ve nowhere to be at the moment, you may as well explain it to me.” His lips twisted into a hard moue. “Seeing as I don’t have much of a choice but to listen.”

Sherlock grimaced. “About that.”

John narrowed his eyes at the unspoken apology he heard in Sherlock’s voice. “About _what?”_ he growled.

Fidgeting, Sherlock blew a loud breath out through his teeth. “I need to tell you something, but I’m… I’m not sure how.”

A flicker of dread flared to life in John’s chest. “Something bad?” he asked cautiously, hoping his crawling feeling of disquiet would prove unfounded.

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned down. “Something bad,” he confirmed.

John closed his eyes. “Bugger.”

* * *

All his life, the right words repeatedly eluded Sherlock. He never found the ones he needed when he required them. Now was no different, but he knew he needed to try. But as he looked at John’s closed eyes, his tense posture and stiff back, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t find them still.

Even so, he tried.

He started with a deep breath. “You’re right, John. I forced you into this. Into being here, staying with me. That’s an established fact.” Sherlock’s voice emerged sounding hard, cold and factual. He winced at his own icy tone and wet his lips. Trying to soften his rough edges — _sandpaper, always sandpaper_ — he waited until John opened his eyes. Until he met Sherlock’s gaze. “We could go back and forth on what I did, could debate if it’s better or worse than what you did when you were still employed by those who want us both dead. We could do that, or we could move on.”

John’s eyes narrowed. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t interrupt. His tense silence was both alarming and encouraging, and Sherlock rushed on.

“In the interest of building trust, I don’t want there to be any more secrets between us.”

John looked puzzled. “I don’t… what do you mean, _secrets?_ What are you talking about, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rose to his feet. He took a step forward, one John countered by backing away. It brought him against the door, his back meeting the wood. Sherlock halted and clenched his hands at his sides.

“I mean full honesty, John,” he said, his voice taking on an earnest tone. “I won’t hide anything from you.”

John tensed, chin lifting as his shoulders rose in a defensive posture. His confusion was evident in his face and in his body, wariness creeping into his expression. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Resisting the urge to flinch, Sherlock shook his head. “Maybe. But I still want to try.”

John’s voice sounded clipped when he replied, “Not sure you’re in the position to make that decision for the both of us.” Eyes dark, a warning in his gaze, he added, “Don’t I get a say?” It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Sherlock answered anyway.

“No,” he said, rushing on when John began to interrupt. “No, John, you don’t. Because I’ve messed up.”

Mouth closing with a click, John stared at him. Several tense seconds passed before he said, slowly, “What do you mean, you’ve messed up?”

Rather than reply with words, Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew out the torn page from the dossier. He held it out, and, just as John had in the car with Mycroft’s note, John took it warily. He unfolded the page with his eyes on Sherlock, evaluating until he dropped his gaze to the paper. His expression slowly darkened before he looked up again. “What is this?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Sherlock closed his eyes with a grimace. “It’s from a file Mycroft left for me to read.” Even with his eyes shut, he could imagine the troubled expression on John’s face, listening as John’s breathing quickened.

“What kind of file?” When Sherlock didn’t immediately reply, he heard John take a step closer. The swirling steam muffled the sound of his socked feet on the tile floor and softened his voice. “Who is this file about, Sherlock?”

Eyes still closed, Sherlock recited, “Captain John Hamish Watson.” He flinched at John’s shocked intake of breath. “Born April 23rd, 1971, to Jean and Hamish Watson.”

“What—”

“Trained in trauma medicine at Bart’s Hospital and a veteran of both Kandahar and Helmand. Diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder after a traumatic event in Afghanistan.”

A waver crept into John’s voice. It sounded like a warning. “Sherlock.”

“Your father was an abusive alcoholic. Child services were called with something of an alarming frequency during your childhood—” 

John’s loud exhale was the only warning before a hand clapped over Sherlock’s mouth. His eyes flew open, his quiet cry of surprise smothered by John’s palm. Standing inches away, so close that every hard, fast breath that left his mouth touched Sherlock’s face, John glared at him.

“What are you playing at?” John asked. His voice was hardly more than a furious hiss, his eyes wide and wild. “Huh? So you read a file on my life, and now you… what? Want to insult me with it? Want to make me feel bad about who I am?” His jaw clenched hard enough that Sherlock heard the joint creak. “Are you _showing off?”_

Sherlock tried to speak, but John’s hand pressed harder against his mouth. When he gripped John’s wrist and tried to pry his hand away, John leaned closer, removing his leverage by trapping Sherlock’s arm against his chest.

“Whatever you’re trying to do, Sherlock, it stops now. You hear me? Whatever your goal is, it won’t work. If you’re trying to intimidate me with this piece of paper,” John shook it aggressively next to Sherlock’s head, “it’s not going to bloody _work.”_ With that, John dropped his hand and stepped away. His expression was threatening, eyes dark and flashing.

Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, smoothing wrinkles from his suit, Sherlock cleared his throat. He felt unbalanced, unnerved by the reminder of John’s more violent skills. “You’ve misunderstood my intentions, John.”

A harsh laugh snarled out through John’s clenched teeth. “Oh? Have I?”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin, white line, piqued by the response. “Yes, you have. If you’d let me explain, I’d make that imminently clear.”

Rolling his eyes in disbelief, John waved the paper at him. “Then, by all means, Sherlock — _clarify.”_

“That,” Sherlock said, pointing at the sheet in John’s hand, “is my brother’s work. I’m showing you that there isn’t anything about you he can’t find out. If he wanted to, Mycroft could probably figure out your favourite cereal and the brand of pants you prefer.”

A scowl slipped over John’s face. “Hanes, and I don’t really eat cereal. Not that important.”

Sherlock paused, mind seizing the information. “Hanes? Really?” At John’s irritated expression, he huffed. “Not the point. The point is, Mycroft makes it his business to know everything about… well, everyone.” Sherlock clenched his hands in annoyance, hoping John would understand why he was telling him this. “You’ve been on his radar for a while now. He didn’t simply compile all that information since I last spoke to him. No, he had much of it ready. I suppose it was simple for him to organize the rest once he realized who was accompanying me—”

John interrupted, “Which he did how?”

Sherlock lifted a shoulder in a small half-shrug. “I assume he checked the CCTV at the consulate in Tangier. It wouldn’t take much for him to determine your identity, John.” He breathed out a grim sigh. “He’s a powerful man.”

Arms crossed over his chest, John tucked his chin downward and eyed Sherlock warily. “You said you messed up.”

“I did.” Sherlock tried to maintain an unflappable facade, but it faltered at the angry squint of John’s eyes. “I thought I was ensuring your safety by keeping you with me. By forcing you to the safe house.” He paused and breathed in a lungful of humid, steamy air. “But it seems I was wrong.”

John’s back straightened, his hands flexing as he tensed. Rocking on his heels, he unfolded his arms, dropping them to his sides with a guarded expression. “What do you mean?”

Despite the risk of antagonizing John further, Sherlock moved forward. John tensed and jerked his head back, but Sherlock simply reached out and plucked the paper from his hand. It was crumpled in places from John’s angry grip and softened by the steam. Sherlock smoothed it out before narrowing his eyes at the words. _“This_ is what I meant,” he said, waving the paper. “This, Mycroft’s meddling. I thought he would help keep you with me. I never imagined he’d take it a step further.” Staying close, looking into John’s wary eyes, Sherlock shook his head, letting an unspoken plea slip into his expression. “I may have led you into the trap, but Mycroft is the one who built the prison. He has no intention of letting you go, John. And I…” Sherlock winced, feeling his cheeks warm with embarrassment. He hoped the steam would hide his discomfort. If not, then maybe that was part of his penance. After all, he’d been the one to miss the trap, who failed to see Mycroft’s plan. “I didn’t see it,” he whispered.

A loud, weighty sigh rushed out past John’s lips. Closing his eyes, he nodded. It seemed that he finally understood.

Sherlock felt some of his tension dissipate, replaced with new agitation when John held still and remained silent for far too long. When he opened his eyes, there was a helpless kind of desperation within them that made Sherlock’s breath catch.

“So you’re saying he’s the real threat, then? Your brother?” John’s searching gaze raked over Sherlock’s face. “And you’re, what? Small potatoes?”

Sherlock’s lips quirked at the term. He forced himself to remain solemn. “I’m not without blame, obviously,” he admitted, meeting and holding John’s intent gaze. “But I didn’t know you were on a watch list. At least, not like this.” He shook the paper before folding it into a neat square and tucking it back into a pocket. “I refuse to let my brother treat you this way.”

“What way?”

Sherlock scowled. “Like his prisoner. Like you’re some kind of… traitor.”

John hesitated before saying, quietly, “I _am_ a traitor, Sherlock.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock snapped, surprising them both with his vehemence. They were still standing close, the steam in the air making the scant inches between them feel far heavier than usual. It made Sherlock feel like he couldn’t draw in a full breath. Like his lungs were filling with water. “I don’t care,” he repeated, softer.

John looked bemused and a little vulnerable at the statement. It was both puzzling and stunning to Sherlock, and he resisted the urge to sway closer. Resisted the craving he felt to try and dissect the expression.

“Why?” John asked.

Breathing out a frustrated sigh, Sherlock pursed his lips. “Weren’t you _listening?”_ he said, clearly irritated. “I want us to work together.”

John flashed a sharp smile, responding to the flare of aggression with a glint of his own. “Yeah, I got that bit. You’ve yet to explain _why.”_

Sherlock stared at him. He warred with himself for a moment, once again searching for the words he always struggled to find. In the end, taking the leap was far easier than he’d ever imagined.

“Because I need you.”


	20. The British Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visit from Mycroft threatens the tenuous balance between Sherlock and John.

John froze. Sherlock’s words filtered through his shock, slow and fragmented, and John reeled.

_I need you._

Needed him? Sherlock needed _him?_ Why? John knew Sherlock had needed his help to stay alive in Morocco, had needed John to keep him safe until Sherlock was out of the country. But Sherlock was out, and now he had his brother. Meddlesome or not and sibling rivalry aside, Mycroft had far more to offer Sherlock than John ever would or could.

It didn’t make sense.

“What?” John finally managed in a hoarse voice. “What do you mean, you need me?”

Sherlock took a step closer. Still stunned by the simple statement, John didn’t back away. He let Sherlock move into his personal space until John could smell the steam clinging to his skin and feel the vehemence rising off him in waves.

“I need you, John,” Sherlock repeated, providing nothing in the way of a concrete answer to John’s questions. “What I have to do, what stands between me and regaining my life… I can’t do it alone.”

John’s mouth went dry. Shock and confusion tasted bitter on his tongue, and swallowing was a struggle. “But why _me?”_

“Who else?” Sherlock said. Like it was simple. As if his statement made all the sense in the world.

John balked. “Anyone,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Anyone else. Your brother, one of those MI6 agents — hell, _anyone.”_ With disbelief still coursing through his body, John gestured at himself. “Look at me, Sherlock. Really, _look at me.”_ He shook his head again, incredulous. “Up until three days ago, I was your enemy. According to your brother, I’m _still_ an enemy of the Commonwealth.”

“I don’t care.” Sherlock’s breathing was loud in the reduced space between them. He suddenly seemed larger than life, his intensity sucking the limited oxygen from the air and leaving John to drown above water. “Queen and Country don’t mean anything to me, John,” Sherlock said, staring at him, eyes unblinking. “All I want is my life back. To clear my name and regain what I lost. And you’re the one who can help me do that.”

Sherlock’s words felt like a physical blow, knocking the air from John’s lungs. All those years spent drowning in his own past and trauma, and this was what would finally do him in: this moment. Sherlock and his ardour would succeed in suffocating John where everything else had failed. He clenched his jaw and forced his shaking hands to fall still. “So that’s it, then?” John asked, relieved to hear his voice emerge sounding far steadier than he felt.

Confusion flickered in Sherlock’s face. “What?” Some of his fervid energy dulled, just enough to let John suck in a gasp of air. His aching lungs rejoiced.

“That’s what I am to you? A one-way ticket to redemption?” John scoffed. “Hardly seems fair.”

The perplexed look lingering in Sherlock’s eyes shifted into alarm. Reaching out, Sherlock caught hold of John by the arms before John could bat his hands away. “No,” Sherlock said, then repeated it with vehemence, _“No._ Not just _my_ redemption, John. Yours, too.”

John tensed at the statement. His _redemption?_ Who did Sherlock think he was? Didn’t he see that John was too far gone for that? Redemption wasn’t an option for him, not anymore.

John forced his reply out through his teeth, “Who said I give a shit about redemption?”

Sherlock huffed. “Fine. Your freedom, then.”

In the process of wrenching himself out of Sherlock’s grasp, John paused. He settled and looked at Sherlock with wary eyes. “Keep talking.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and nodded. “I’m not going to let Mycroft call the shots.”

All too aware of Sherlock’s hands gripping his arms, John held perfectly still. He could feel his pulse, thudding beneath the press of Sherlock’s palms. “And how are you planning to do that?”

A flicker of uncertainty passing over his face, Sherlock grimaced. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure something out.”

John’s mouth twitched with reluctant amusement. “That doesn’t sound terribly promising.”

Staring hard at John, Sherlock squeezed his arms quickly before releasing his hold and stepping back. “I’ll think of something,” he vowed, sounding far less confident than his words made him seem.

They both went quiet. The silence lingered until John cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. He felt out of place and unbalanced by the conversation. The revelation that his entire past was common knowledge to a select few made John feel like he’d lost what little of his footing remained. After spending years thinking he’d managed to slip under the radar, managed to keep out of sight, the truth was a sobering wake-up call.

“Well, alright.” John pulled in a steamy breath and glanced at the still-running shower. “Uh, can we get out of here now? I feel like I just sweated out a whole stone. Sinuses are nice and clear, though.” Rubbing the back of his neck, feeling awkward in the aftermath of their conversation, John forced out a strained laugh. “So, guess that’s a plus.”

 _Well done, Watson. Very smooth._ John winced at his own thoughts. 

Sherlock let out a quiet snort, his lips tilting into a lopsided smile. Crossing the small room, he shut off the water and turned back to John. His expression grew intense once again, his eyes dark and beseeching. “Just… give me a chance to make things right, John.” Swallowing, Sherlock coughed quietly. “Will you do that? Will you give me that chance?”

Standing near the door, staring back at him, John pursed his lips and considered the question. His instinct was to say no, to deny Sherlock the chance he so clearly desired. Something kinder, buried deep and struggling to wake, told John to grant the request. Told him to take a chance of his own one last time.

In the end, his instincts lost the fight. Drawing in a lungful of steamy air, John sighed it out and nodded. “One last chance.” He held up a hand to silence Sherlock when his mouth popped open. “But, Sherlock — when I say one, I mean it. One is all you get.”

Sherlock’s relieved expression slipped a bit but didn’t fade entirely. His sharp features settled into a look that appeared tentatively hopeful, and he returned John’s nod. “Yes, John. I understand.”

John ducked his head, frowned at his socked feet before looking up again with a sigh. “Alright. I want out of this bathroom before I suffocate.” Ignoring Sherlock’s surprised smile at the playful words, John turned on his heel and opened the door. Fresh air rushed in, washing over John and making the pores in his face tingle at the temperature change. It felt refreshing, and John pulled in a deep breath to clear his chest of the heavy steam. Though his joke about losing a full stone from the heat in the small bathroom had been made in good fun, John found that he actually felt lighter. Likely, that had more to do with Sherlock's argument than any amount of sweat released in the humid atmosphere. But there was almost a spring in John’s step, a new sense of resolve as he left the bathroom and walked down the hall toward the dining room. The only thing tempering his improved mood was the steam and perspiration clinging to his skin. It made him grimace and crave the chill of a cool shower to wash the salt from his skin.

He was still thinking about that shower when he rounded the corner into the kitchen and came to an abrupt halt.

Sitting at the dining room table, which should have been empty, was a man. He was reading a newspaper, seemingly unperturbed that he was trespassing in what was supposed to be a guarded safe house. He was unfamiliar to John, white and blue-eyed with a receding, reddish-brown hairline. He wasn’t one of the MI6 men and appeared to be unarmed. Dressed in a navy-blue three-piece suit that likely cost more money than John had ever seen in his life, he looked perfectly at ease sitting at the head of the table where John had eaten his breakfast earlier.

Fingers twitching at his sides, John ached for the familiar weight of a gun at his side. His initial thought, inspired by adrenaline and wariness, suggested the man might be working for John’s ex-employers. But that possibility faded, replaced by a growing dread that shifted into grim certainty the longer he looked at him.

This man was no killer. At least not one who got his hands dirty. The only death he dealt was through orders given and by commanding dangerous people to do the wet work for him.

John’s rising suspicion was confirmed by Sherlock. He almost walked into John’s back, halted and frowned over John’s shoulder at the man before letting out a frustrated huff. Stepping gingerly around John, his hand drifting almost absentmindedly to rest on John’s arm, Sherlock grumbled, “Mycroft.”

The man looked up at the name. One eyebrow rose, his gaze shifting over them both, eyes lingering where Sherlock’s hand rested on John’s bicep. The eyebrow drifted higher before he took his time folding the newspaper in half and setting it on the table. Standing, he smoothed the wrinkles out of his jacket, eyed Sherlock’s steam-curled hair, John’s shining face, and offered a cool smile.

There was nothing friendly in the expression.

“Sherlock. I was wondering when you’d grace me with your presence.” The man’s voice was flat and falsely pleasant. The sound of it, paired with that unfeeling smile, made John tense. Sherlock’s hand, still on his arm, applied gentle pressure before disappearing as Sherlock took a step forward. The movement placed him squarely between John and his brother, and John couldn’t help but notice how it mirrored the night before. Sherlock had done the same with the MI6 agent who planned to search John.

Maybe deciding to give him one last chance hadn’t been such a bad idea.

“I wasn’t aware you would be paying us a visit,” Sherlock replied. The words sounded strained, and John saw that Sherlock was clenching his jaw. He spoke through his teeth, his lips turned down at the corners. He shot John an apologetic glance, silently communicating: _I really didn’t know._

Staring back at him, John realized he believed the unspoken plea. He tilted his head in a small nod, and relief flickered over Sherlock’s face before he turned his attention back to his brother.

“Why are you here, Mycroft?” He didn’t bother with politeness, and John pressed his lips together to hold back an amused smirk.

Eyebrows knitted together, Mycroft regarded them both with a quiet intensity before tipping his head in a brisk nod. Tapping his fingers against the dining table, he strode forward and stopped in front of them. He studied them once again, the similarity of his focused stare reminding John of Sherlock. Their eyes weren’t the same colour, but that razor-sharp gaze was all too familiar.

John’s hands curled into fists. He straightened his back, chin lifting as he met the scrutiny with a hard stare.

“I hoped we might discuss a proposal.” Mycroft paused, and his eyes flickered to John, studying him head to toe. “And I wanted to meet Captain Watson in person. A pleasure, I’m sure.” He held out a hand, unperturbed as John simply stood there without shifting a muscle. But the hand never dropped, never wavered until John finally moved around Sherlock and reached out to accept the handshake.

“I’m sure,” he replied drily.

Mycroft’s false smile widened, growing sharper until it looked closer to a sneer. “Charming. I see why my brother likes you so much.” He didn’t look at Sherlock when he said it, but John still caught the annoyed expression that flashed over Sherlock’s features.

Mycroft released John’s hand, and John immediately stepped back. In a move so sudden it almost seemed scripted, Sherlock sidled forward again. His posture was rigid, his body language stiff. Looking at him, it was easy for John to believe Sherlock truly meant to side with him over his brother.

“What proposal, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked in a cold voice. “Hurry up and spit it out so you can leave.”

Mycroft lifted a hand to silence him. “Do grow up, Sherlock. I’m sure we can all at least be civilized.” He gestured to the table, eyes flitting once again to John. “Please, sit. Both of you.” He spared Sherlock an annoyed glance. Sherlock huffed in response but dropped into a chair without further comment.

John remained standing, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him in silent inquiry. John crossed his arms over his chest and offered a tight-lipped smile. “I’d prefer to stand,” he said, adding, “thanks,” as an afterthought when Mycroft looked like he might press the matter.

Instead of arguing, Mycroft offered a small shrug. “That is your choice to make, Captain.”

John’s teeth clicked together. “I’m not a captain,” he snapped, some of his recently-receded anger rising in a flash.

He received a serene expression in response, Mycroft appearing unruffled by his vitriol. “Maybe so, Captain Watson. But not all things stay in the past.”

Tension snapped through John’s body. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mycroft indicated the chair next to Sherlock again. “Are you sure you won’t sit?” John remained standing, his back straight and his chin tilted upward in a defiant display. Mycroft sighed. “Very well. Then we’ll just have to do it like this.” Settling into the seat he’d occupied when they first entered the kitchen, Mycroft laid his hands together on top of the table. He eyed them both, received a cold stare from Sherlock and a glare from John, and sighed again. The polite facade of Mycroft’s smile slipped from his face, his hawkish features hardening. “Let’s talk, then.”

* * *

Mycroft’s presence, something rarely wanted and doubly unwelcome now, had Sherlock on immediate high alert. Judging by John’s tense body language and refusal to sit at Mycroft’s request, the feeling was mutual.

Fingers steepled beneath his lower lip, Sherlock sat stiffly in his chair and eyed his brother across the table. Mycroft looked away from John to Sherlock, and the eyeing shifted into a staring contest. Sherlock knew it was childish, the display throwing him back to a multitude of childhood tantrums, but he held his ground. He refused to back down first until Mycroft sighed, rolled his eyes to the ceiling in a silent bid for patience, and looked away.

A small, satisfied smirk quirked Sherlock’s lips before he could squash the urge. He caught movement from the edge of his vision and glanced up to see John looking at him. John tipped his head to one side, the possibility of a smile on his lips until he coughed and dropped his eyes to the ground. Trying not to give in to the thrill rippling through him at the brief moment of solidarity, Sherlock turned his attention to his brother, curious about his presence.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You look awful, Sherlock.” It was a dig and not even a subtle one at that.

Sherlock’s curiousity dried up, and his nose crinkled in annoyance. Rather than dignify the comment by acknowledging it, he snapped, “Why are you here?”

Mycroft didn’t immediately reply. He looked at his hands instead, scraping some invisible dirt from beneath his thumbnail. His silence drew out until Sherlock thought he might snap.

 _“Mycroft,”_ he growled, fingers twitching with restrained violence. Sherlock forced himself to settle, hoping his brother hadn’t noticed the lapse. Judging by the small, smug tilt of Mycroft’s lips, he hadn’t missed it. Sherlock wasn’t surprised: he rarely missed anything.

Mycroft’s throat bobbed with a swallow before he tapped a finger to his lips and spoke. “As stated, I came to see how you were, and I see that you are in rough shape and fine form, exactly as I anticipated.” Ignoring Sherlock’s bristle, Mycroft turned his focus to John. Leaning against the granite island separating the dining area from the kitchen, arms folded over his chest, John met the scrutiny with a flat, unimpressed expression.

He didn’t so much as shift beneath Mycroft’s stare, and Sherlock felt a flicker of satisfaction rise at John’s unflinching stance.

“And I wanted to finally meet Captain Watson in person, of course,” Mycroft continued, drawing Sherlock’s focus back to the present moment. “Your reputation precedes you, Captain.”

Eyelids dropping to half-mast, John quirked his lips into a grimace and cautiously replied, “I don’t know what I’m meant to say to that.”

Mycroft offered a placid little smile. On anyone else, it might have looked pleasant or innocent. On Mycroft, it made him look like a predator playing with its food. “I assure you,” he said in his oily politician’s voice, “it’s a compliment.”

John stiffened, a look of surprise passing over his face. Sherlock watched him take evident pains to smooth the reaction away, the muscles shifting in his jaw as he ground his teeth. It was a moment before he relaxed enough to speak. “I’m not sure I understand.” He squinted, his left hand tapping restlessly against his right bicep. “A compliment?”

Sherlock sat across from his brother, eyes flitting between Mycroft and John, breath shallow as he watched the scene unfold. A flicker of understanding was beginning to form in his mind, too slow and not yet clear. Swallowing, he narrowed his eyes and waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Allow me to explain,” Mycroft offered. He waited with raised eyebrows until John tipped his chin in a curt nod. “Good. Are you absolutely certain you won’t sit?”

This time, Sherlock imagined he could hear the click of John’s jaw when it tensed. “No, I’m good,” John said through his teeth.

Sherlock smothered a smile and watched Mycroft lean back in his seat with a small shrug.

“If you insist.” Mycroft paused as if gathering his thoughts, eyes on his hands where they rested flat on the table. Clasping them together, fingers laid neatly over his knuckles, Mycroft lifted his gaze to John. The smile was back, as unconvincing as a shark’s. “As I said, I have a proposal. One I think you might be interested in hearing.”

“Me?” John asked, head tilting in confusion. “Not Sherlock?” He glanced at Sherlock, who looked back at him, letting his bemusement show on his face. John frowned and looked at Mycroft again, silently waiting for clarification.

Mycroft’s smile widened just slightly. It was enough to make Sherlock’s stomach twist. “It’s a proposal for both of you, actually.”

Something was coming. Something Sherlock knew he wouldn’t like and John would probably hate. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Stop wasting our time and get to the point, Mycroft.”

His brother sighed, glancing upward to communicate his annoyance. “Always so impatient,” he said, aiming an indulgent smile at John as if they were both in on some inside joke Sherlock wasn’t privy to. “Such a pity.” The words made Sherlock brace for further insult, teeth locking together as he recalled all the slights — both minor and major — Mycroft had perpetrated against him in their youth. He sucked in a breath, forcing back an angry flush of embarrassment and dismay at having John made an accomplice to his humiliation.

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look up and gauge John’s reaction.

He was startled when John barked out a sharp laugh, making Sherlock look up at him in shock. At first, he thought John was laughing at him and felt a sick swoop in his stomach. But John was glaring at Mycroft, his jaw jutting forward in a fierce, angry smile. It was the same smile he’d aimed at Sherlock in the car, after the ferry dock. Just as it had then, it communicated John’s ire clearly.

“Fuck off, mate,” John growled, looking unimpressed by Mycroft’s attempts at gaining his trust by disparaging Sherlock. “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work on me.”

Slow surprise flitted over Mycroft’s expression, erased just as quick when he forced his features into an impassive mask. He cleared his throat, pasting the sharp smile back onto his face. “I see.”

Sitting across from him, still looking at John, Sherlock gawked. He saw John’s eyes dart toward him and dropped his gaze, shifting to face forward again as amazement flashed through his mind. His heart was hammering in his chest, and Sherlock blinked at the table with unseeing eyes.

John stood up to Mycroft. Despite the things Sherlock had done, his manipulations and betrayal, John refused to rise to the bait. Whether that was due to a growing sense of loyalty to Sherlock or John’s intense dislike of Mycroft, Sherlock couldn’t be sure. Still, he felt a little flicker of warmth in his chest that gradually radiated throughout his body.

Mycroft cleared his throat, forcing Sherlock’s attention back to the conversation. “Of course, Captain Watson,” he said smoothly, his voice betraying nothing of the fleeting surprise he’d displayed. “I should have known better than to try.”

A harsh snort from John. “Surprised you even made an attempt. Sherlock has made it clear that you already know everything about me — not sure what you thought that would gain you.”

Sherlock felt Mycroft’s gaze shift onto him and looked up to meet it. He narrowed his eyes, defiant, as Mycroft said, “He did, did he?” He lifted a hand to his face, smoothing his thumb slowly over his bottom lip. “Fascinating.”

The two brothers stared at one another until John began to fidget, and Mycroft broke the eye contact to look at him.

“While I apologize for attempting such basic interrogation tactics on you, Captain, I stand by it. I had to be sure, you see.”

Sherlock frowned at the same time that John asked, “Sure of what?”

Mycroft smiled. “Of your loyalty.”

“My… loyalty?” John repeated in a cautious voice. He eyed Mycroft with apparent suspicion, his body language closed-off and defensive.

“Yes, Captain Watson.” Mycroft’s nod was brisk, his hands unfolding to tap against the table, punctuating his reply. “Your loyalty to my brother. A rather underhanded effort on my part, I admit, but necessary.”

John’s arms dropped to his sides, but he didn’t move from his spot at the counter. “Necessary for what?”

Sherlock watched his brother, cautiously expectant with the same frown still marring his brow, waiting for him to explain. The vague understanding in his head was still a swirling miasma, itching to be made clear.

“Of course.” Mycroft cleared his throat and folded his hands together again. His posture was annoyingly perfect, spine set flat against the chair back. “You see, this proposal of mine requires loyalty — not just from you, Captain. Both of you must be dedicated to the plan for it to succeed.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Stop dragging it out, Mycroft,” he sighed. Outwardly, his expression was bored, flat and carefully annoyed. Inwardly, his heart was still racing, the rush of his pulse loud enough to fill his ears with a soft whoosh of blood through veins. He’d never known his brother to take so long to make a point, and it had him on edge. Something was coming, and Mycroft knew neither of them would respond well, so he was drawing it out.

It made Sherlock nervous.

Mycroft’s mouth quirked. Just like that, he was once again the shark in their midst. “Teamwork,” he said simply, waiting as John shifted on his feet, and Sherlock blinked.

“Teamwork?” John echoed. He shot a perplexed look at Sherlock. Still not grasping Mycroft’s plan, Sherlock looked up to catch his eye and shrugged.

“Indeed.” Mycroft blew out a soft sigh. “Before I explain my proposal, I urge you to consider it in full before you make a decision.” His eyes flickered from Sherlock to John. _“Both_ of you.”

John made a rough sound low in his throat. It sounded like a scoff that edged lower into an impatient growl. “God,” he snapped, arms folding over his chest again, “are you _always_ such a windbag?” John didn’t let Mycroft’s insulted expression or his stiffened posture keep him from adding, “I get that you love to hear the sound of your own damn voice, but I’m getting fucking tired of it, myself.”

Mouth clicking shut with an audible sound, Mycroft stared at John. He looked angry and startled, caught on his back foot by the outburst. Across the table, Sherlock struggled to hold back the laugh rising in his throat. Judging by the glare Mycroft shot in his direction, he didn’t quite succeed. Sherlock found he couldn’t be arsed to care, too impressed by how easily John brought Mycroft down an entire peg with just his words. And in the kitchen of the safe house Mycroft had arranged for them, no less.

The sheer gall made Sherlock feel giddy. An unexpected rush of excitement rippled through him, making his mouth dry. It reminded him of his headache and lingering dehydration. The bathroom's hot, steam-heavy environment during his talk with John still clung to his skin, and Sherlock swallowed with difficulty. Trying to buy himself time to regain his composure, Sherlock cleared his throat and rose from the table. He ignored Mycroft’s scowl and John’s curious glance and carried on into the kitchen. Drawing himself a cup of water, Sherlock downed the liquid, gasped, and filled the glass again. Only then did he turn to face John and Mycroft, the latter of which was watching him with a calculating expression.

Sherlock sipped the water and tipped his chin toward his brother. “John’s right, Mycroft — do get on with it.”

Mycroft’s face twisted into a sour countenance, but he let the slight pass. John was still standing rigidly against the counter, watching Mycroft with a focus that threatened to make Sherlock weak at the knees.

“As you wish,” Mycroft sighed, affecting a beleaguered tone that made it clear he found the both of them tedious. “As I was saying, you’ll want to think over my proposal before accepting or rejecting it. Most likely,” here, he looked at John, who stiffened, “you won’t like it.”

John’s hands flexed at his sides. Sherlock tracked the movement before sidling over to the counter. Leaning against the cold granite brought him nearer John, close enough to hear his sharp intake of breath. Eyes half-open, he waited for John’s response.

“And why is that?” John asked in a curt voice.

A ghost of Mycroft’s earlier smile, flat and hard, flitted along his lips. “Because it requires a level of sacrifice on your part, Captain Watson, that I’m not sure you’ll appreciate.”

Sherlock heard John’s jaw pop as a tendon flexed in his neck. “Try me,” he challenged.

This time, Mycroft’s smile made it past the twitch of his lips. It spread over his face, sharp as a blade. “You are aware of Sherlock’s current, ah… situation?”

John tipped his head in a small nod. “He explained about Moriarty and the network if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I am.” Mycroft looked pleased. “Then you’re aware of what he has to do? Why he has to do it?”

Another nod from John. “Yes. He has to dismantle the remaining crime syndicates to destabilize the network.” He glanced at Sherlock and pursed his lips, his expression thoughtful. “He wants his life back.”

Mycroft’s pleased look shifted into one of satisfaction. Something in the way his eyes gleamed made Sherlock feel uneasy. He felt like there was a trap, one John was slowly being led into. Still, Sherlock couldn’t quite see it. He narrowed his eyes, waiting for Mycroft to dangle the bait.

“I’m suggesting an alliance.”

John’s response was visceral. He snorted and looked around, squinting over his shoulder at Sherlock. Glass of water in hand, Sherlock blinked back at him.

“Did you put him up to this?” John asked, jerking his thumb at Mycroft. “‘Cos, that sounds an awful lot like the speech you just gave me in the bathroom.”

Sherlock caught Mycroft’s raised eyebrow and forced his focus back to John. “I didn’t even know he was coming here.” At John’s doubtful expression, Sherlock set down his water and leaned over the counter. John tensed but didn’t move away. “I meant what I said, John,” Sherlock said, dropping his voice until John had to strain to hear him. “No more secrets. Full honesty. Whatever Mycroft is about to suggest, I have no hand in it.”

John was silent, processing Sherlock’s words. His eyes, darkly suspicious, darted over Sherlock’s face as if searching for something. John seemed to find it because he nodded and turned back to Mycroft. The hard line of his shoulders eased, and Sherlock breathed out a relieved sigh. He reached for his water and took another sip, watching both John and Mycroft over the rim.

Eyebrows still raised in false patience, Mycroft blinked at them both. “You’re ready to hear me out, then?”

John blew out a strained little laugh under his breath. “Do I actually have a choice?”

Mycroft’s smile was almost charming. “You do not.”

“Then, by all means,” John muttered, waving a hand. Mycroft scowled but didn’t call John out on his bad manners. Instead, he sighed and continued to smile placidly at them both.

“As you know, Sherlock has become compromised. When he faked his death, it granted him an advantage: it allowed him to slip off the radar and complete his mission. Until now.” Mycroft’s smile slipped away, his expression growing sombre. “As you know all too well, Captain Watson — having been sent to capture and deliver him to his likely death — that facade is gone. His cover is blown, leaving Sherlock vulnerable. He no longer has the element of surprise on his side, can no longer go unnoticed and ignored. That puts his mission — and, by extension, Sherlock — at risk.”

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, cast Sherlock a quick, unreadable glance, and frowned. “What does that have to do with your proposal?”

With his features arranged into a blank mask, Mycroft said, “Sherlock requires a certain level of support if he is to succeed in his endeavour. Front-line support — support I cannot grant him.”

With his face in profile to Sherlock, John’s eyes narrowed. “What does that have to do with me?” John asked.

Sherlock slid a fingertip over the puddle of condensation forming from the drops slipping off his water glass. He bit his lip, turning Mycroft’s words over in his head, following them toward an inevitable conclusion. His mind reached it just as Mycroft replied.

“I believe you can provide such support, Captain Watson.”

Sherlock and John reacted at the same time. John sucked in a loud breath and hunched his shoulders, and Sherlock stood upright, bolting out of his slouch with an incredulous expression. Before he could think of what to say, John spoke.

“Why me?” he asked, repeating the same question he’d asked Sherlock earlier when steam muffled his voice in the small bathroom. “What help would I be?”

The look Mycroft fixed John with was incredulous. “Please tell me I don’t have to answer such an inane question.”

John bristled. “Answer it,” he said through his teeth, the reply ground out from a tight clench.

Mycroft sighed and tipped his head back. When he settled again, he almost looked disappointed. “You have military experience, Captain Watson. Training as a doctor and a trauma surgeon. You’ve managed to drop off even my radar several times and kept yourself afloat with wet work. You survived an immense trauma that included interrogation, torture, and violent extraction techniques.” He offered a bemused tilt of his lips, eyebrows rising in disbelief. “Shall I go on? Or do you understand now how your experience makes you an asset to my brother?”

A loud, harsh breath huffed out through John’s pursed lips. “No,” he muttered in a dark voice, “I get it.” He shot Sherlock a sidelong glance, evaluating, before turning back to Mycroft. “And if I refuse?”

The look Mycroft offered was pitying. “I really must advise against such a refusal, Captain Watson.”

Dread tingled through Sherlock’s body, coaxing goosebumps over his skin. The final pieces of Mycroft’s plan fell into place, and he sucked in a sharp exhale. The sound drew John’s attention back to him, questioning. Sherlock shook his head and fixed his brother with a glare.

“Mycroft,” he warned, hands curling tightly around the edge of the counter, “don’t.”

Mycroft aimed an unperturbed grimace in his direction. “This doesn’t concern you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s fingers tensed, gripping the counter harder. “It very much _does_ concern me.”

“This is between myself and Captain Watson.” Mycroft aimed a beatific smile at John. “Do you wish to hear the full terms of the proposal?”

John, who had been standing statue-still, came to life with a slow flex of hands against his biceps. He stared at Mycroft, tilted his head to one side then the other in a stretch, and breathed loudly out through his nose. He sounded like a bull preparing to charge, and Sherlock eyed him warily. But John held his position, leaning against the counter with his legs crossed at the ankles. Slowly, he uncrossed them, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “What terms?” He sounded cautious.

In comparison to John’s rigid posture, Mycroft looked unbothered. Sherlock felt like he was full of bees, struggling not to jitter with uncertain energy.

“If you agree to help Sherlock, in whatever capacity that may entail,” Mycroft said slowly, “I will make it worth your while.”

John’s tongue darted out, sweeping over his bottom lip in thought. Forehead creased by a small frown, he asked, “How?”

The look on Mycroft’s face made Sherlock’s stomach twist. It reminded him of a hunter, one who had coaxed its prey into taking the bait and was sure of the catch. It made Sherlock want to shut him up. Made him want to grab John and pull him from the room so he wouldn’t be forced into the trap Mycroft had so cleverly set. But all he could do was stand there and let it happen, knowing they’d both been tricked.

“Amnesty,” Mycroft said, clicking his tongue on the _t._ “Your freedom, Captain Watson. A full pardon. Of any and all crimes you’ve committed since turning your back on the country of your birth.”

John’s back straightened. It was like an electric shock had gone through him, his spine snapping to rigid attention. “You can do that?” he asked, his soft voice communicating evident doubt.

Mycroft nodded. “I can. And I will. But only if Sherlock succeeds. Only if you truly do everything in your power to assist him in completing his mission.”

Sherlock watched John’s throat bob as he swallowed. He was quiet, prompting Sherlock to speak up, “John—”

John held up a hand, cutting him off before Sherlock could finish his protest. Sherlock fell silent, and John’s hands dropped to his sides. Shoulders squared, he held Mycroft’s gaze, unflinching and refusing to back down. “And if I don’t accept your offer?” He cleared his throat, eyes darting to Sherlock’s and away. “If I refuse?”

Mycroft smiled, unperturbed. “Then you will be held accountable for your crimes. All of them. You will be remanded into custody, sent to London and treated like the traitor you are.” Mycroft stretched out his hands slowly and tipped his head to the side, eyes pinning John in place. “You will be tried to the fullest extent of the law, no doubt found guilty, and sentenced accordingly.”

His mouth gone dry, Sherlock looked at John. He stood stiffly, perfectly still and silent with his lips pressed into a thin line. John wasn’t staring at Mycroft, but past him, his gaze fixed on the wall. To Sherlock’s vivid imagination, he thought he could almost see the horror and shock unravelling within John’s body.

He clenched his hands into fists and waited for the outcome.

It was a long moment before John reanimated. He pulled a shallow, stuttering breath in through his teeth and crossed his arms over his chest again. His hands were shaking, and Sherlock watched as he pressed them hard against his biceps to make them stop. Still, his fingers twitched, matching the muscle jumping in his jaw.

“That hardly seems like a fair choice,” John said, his voice no more than a croak.

Mycroft’s expression was pitying. “That’s because it’s not.” Hands folded on the table, he fixed John with an intent eye, like John was a specimen beneath a microscope. Like John was something to be studied and dissected and nothing more. “Amnesty or prison. Your choice, Captain Watson."


	21. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John rejects Mycroft's proposal, and Sherlock makes a plan.

Thick silence followed Mycroft’s statement. John felt it ring in his ears, deafening all other sounds with a rising noise. Belatedly, he realized the rushing in his ears was the sound of his unsteady pulse. John sucked in a breath, trying to steady himself before looking at Sherlock. He was still leaning on the counter, and, despite the shocked expression on his face, John had to ask. “Did you know about this?” Turning to face him, John jerked his head back toward Mycroft. “Did you know he was going to do this?”

Sherlock’s troubled gaze shifted away from his brother, meeting John’s accusing eyes. His mouth opened, gaped, then closed without speaking. Slowly, he shook his head. He looked as blindsided as John felt, but John needed to be sure.

“I need to hear you say it,” he said in a strained voice.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock croaked, “I had no idea, John. Really.” He sounded hoarse and earnest, a hint of plea vibrating within his response. “I swear.”

They stared at one another. John’s gaze was appraising, evaluating, while Sherlock looked back at him with a flicker of desperation in his eyes. The moment stretched out, taut and tense until Mycroft spoke up, catching John’s attention.

“He had no part in my proposal. This offer is my own and mine alone, Captain Watson.” 

Hands tensing into fists, his stiff fingers curling in toward his palms, John rounded on him. “Stop calling me that,” he seethed, infuriated by Mycroft’s serene expression. “I’m _not_ a captain anymore and haven’t been for years.”

With an unflappable calm that made John want to wring his neck, Mycroft stood his ground in the face of John’s anger. “You’re not a captain now, but you could be,” he replied.

John went perfectly still. “Excuse me?” he asked in a soft voice, trying to make sense of the words. Surely, Mycroft didn’t mean what it sounded like?

“Ah, that’s got your attention, has it?” Mycroft offered a small smile. It faded when John bared his teeth and glared.

“You're damn right that it’s got my attention,” John snapped. “Now — get. To. The. _Point.”_

Mycroft waved a dismissive hand at John’s angry demand. “I must say, your lack of tact is deeply disappointing, Captain.” At a scathing look from John, he sighed. “Fine. Have it your way.” Hands clasped together, he regarded John with a flat stare. “In order for you to help Sherlock the way I require, you would need to be contracted under MI6.”

John narrowed his eyes. His tongue darted out, flicking over his bottom lip in a nervous tic he never seemed able to shake. He let the words sink in, processing their meaning with a growing sense of dread. It was a moment before he managed to reply, asking, “And if I refuse?”

Mycroft looked at him for a long, silent spell. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, “I really must advise against refusing my offer, Captain Watson.” He fixed John with a shrewd eye. “I am not the kind of man to, as they say, ‘cut a deal.’”

John didn’t think it was possible, but the tension in his body increased. The muscles tightened throughout his back and shoulders until his neck kinked, making him grimace. John saw Sherlock eyeing him with a wary expression from the edge of his vision and ignored him. Flexing his hands slowly at his sides, John swallowed and bit down hard on his inner cheek to keep himself from reacting with the violence rising in his veins.

“You want to hire me?” he asked in a slow voice. Mycroft nodded, and John scowled. “Why the fuck would I agree to that?” Disregarding the annoyed look on Mycroft’s face, John shook his head. “Last time I worked for Queen and Country, all it got me were the scars on my back and a hush-hush discharge. If you believe I’m stupid enough to put myself back in the same hands that nearly cost me my life before, then you don’t know a thing about me.” John made a soft, disgusted sound, dismissive. “I think I’d rather take my chances in prison, thanks.”

A terse silence fell on the heels of his statement. Sherlock’s wary expression shifted into one of dismay, and Mycroft looked grim. Nobody spoke, the air humming with the angry words still hanging between them. Shoulders squared, chin lifted, John glared at Mycroft. Their gazes locked until Mycroft’s brow furrowed, and he looked away.

John snorted and dropped his gaze to his socked feet. He stared at them and the floor, thinking. Analyzing his words and finding that he meant them. He wasn’t bluffing: he would choose imprisonment over being forced into servitude to a man like Mycroft. Even if it meant abandoning Sherlock, turning his back on the last chance he’d granted to them both, John stood by his choice.

Eyes on his feet, he shook his head and huffed out a ragged breath. “Sod this,” John spat. Without bothering to excuse himself, he turned on his heel and left the room. He took stiff, choppy strides, refusing to slow his pace when he heard someone follow. John assumed it was Sherlock but didn’t look back. If it turned out to be Mycroft, John knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from letting his fists do any further talking.

A hand brushed his back just as John reached the bottom of the stairs, freezing him in place, startled at the unexpectedly gentle contact. Every muscle went stiff, and John flinched away hard enough to inspire the murmuring of a soft apology. The sound of the voice, deep and familiar, eased some of the tension from John’s body. Gathering his balance, John turned around slowly. 

As predicted, Sherlock was the one to follow. He stood there in front of John, hands fidgeting at his sides. His expression was uncertain but intense.

“John,” he said in a quiet voice, eyes darting over John’s face as if trying to discern his thoughts, “are you sure?” At John’s narrowing eyes, Sherlock blanched and rushed to add, “I disagree with what he’s done, but Mycroft is offering you your freedom. He’s giving you a second chance.”

Incredulous, John stepped back. His heel hit the edge of the stairs, and he moved up onto the bottom step. The movement brought him and Sherlock face to face, making Sherlock blink.

“You don’t get it, do you?” John shook his head, his jaw clenching around the words. “Who said I even _wanted_ a second chance?” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John glared at him until he closed it again. Tone edging toward exhausted, John sighed. “Ever since I met you, Sherlock, it feels like I haven’t made a single choice for myself. There’s just been the illusion of control. All this time, you’ve been manipulating me, or _he_ has.” He jerked his chin toward the kitchen and shook his head. “I’m tired of it, Sherlock. So tired of all of it. I just… I just want to be done.”

Sherlock stared. His expression was difficult to read, a storm of different emotions flickering through his pale eyes. His face tensed, twisted and settled on something that looked like regret. “John, if you don’t accept Mycroft’s offer, he will do what he said he would,” he said in that same quiet voice, eyes imploring. “He will have you arrested and tried. It’s not an idle threat.”

“Yeah?” John’s lips curled into a sad smile. “So be it.”

Sherlock winced. “You said you’d give me another chance,” he said with a hint of petulance. “You said you’d let me figure this out.”

A sharp little laugh escaped John. “Yeah, well, that was before your brother swanned in here and backed me into a corner,” he said, tipping his head to one side as he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what you asked of me now, Sherlock. Not anymore.”

Sherlock flinched as if John had struck him. Rather than apologize, John turned and began to make his way up the stairs. He gained two steps before Sherlock spoke again, halting him in place.

“Would it really be so bad?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper. “Helping me?” he clarified when John didn’t reply, didn’t turn around. “Would it really be so awful?”

With one foot on the step ahead of him, John pressed his teeth against his tongue. He scowled up at the landing, warring with himself, telling himself not to turn around. Then, with a defeated rush of air escaping through his teeth, he grudgingly turned and looked down at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared up at him from the bottom of the stairs. He looked desperate.

John closed his eyes to block out the sight. “You don’t understand,” he breathed, his brows drawing downward. He didn’t expect an answer and was startled when he received one.

“Then help me to understand.” There was a quiet creak, and John opened his eyes to see Sherlock standing on the bottom step. He held John’s gaze, gaining the second stair. “Make me understand, John.”

They stared at one another, their faces almost level, John slightly higher. John fought against the rising urge to retreat. He wanted to bolt but found himself rooted in place by Sherlock’s eyes. They were bright and intense, giving John the feverish impression that they were aglow with some internal light.

Dismissing the fanciful thought, John sucked in a breath. Slowly, his frown deepened, and he forced his gaze away. “I can’t,” he said, glaring at the wall.

“Try,” came the quiet plea.

John snorted. His mouth twisted to the side in a wry grimace. He felt his barriers rise, snapping into place like the prison bars he may very well soon be facing. It helped, creating distance between them, letting him look at Sherlock without bowing to his intensity.

“I’ve worked for men like your brother before, Sherlock,” John began in a steady voice. Sherlock watched him closely, hanging on every word. John swallowed before continuing, “Men like him... they don’t care about people like me. We’re just… just…” John’s hands rose, his fingers curling in toward his palms in a helpless gesture as he tried to find the right words. Letting them fall back to his sides, he sighed. “Men like me are just a means to an end for them, and they don’t care if we live or die. Or _how_ we die.”

Sherlock stared up at him with solemn eyes. To John’s surprise, he didn’t interrupt. He just went on watching John intently, waiting for him to continue.

John’s tongue darted out, sweeping over the dry skin of his bottom lip. “When I survived what happened to me in Afghanistan, I promised myself I would never go through that again. That I wouldn’t let someone else call the shots. Not ever, Sherlock.” John’s expression darkened, and he tucked his chin down against his neck, intense in his earnestness. “And I won’t make an exception for your brother.” He hesitated before adding, “Not even for you.”

Without giving Sherlock the chance to reply, John turned away. He left him looking stunned, a little dazed. John trotted up the remaining steps and ducked into his chosen bedroom. He didn’t let himself look back. Only once he was inside, flipping the flimsy lock on the door, did John release the breath he’d been holding. He crossed the room with a stiff march, letting his legs go out from under him when he reached the bed. Perched on the edge of the mattress, he stared at the floor with unfocused eyes.

He felt rising defeat weighing down his body.

All those years of work. Everything John had done, everything that was done _to_ him, everything he’d been through… it was all for nothing. His entire life suddenly felt pointless. It didn’t matter what had led John here. He was trapped. It didn’t matter that he’d made an effort to be better or that he’d agreed to trust Sherlock again. None of it meant anything now because Mycroft had shattered any illusion John held of having control over his life. In one fell swoop, everything John thought he’d achieved was proven a facade.

There was no way he could do what Mycroft and Sherlock wanted him to. John couldn’t do it, couldn’t become a cog in a machine that chewed people up and spat them out like an afterthought. He’d done it once, barely survived it then, and wouldn’t survive it now.

Even if it meant giving up what little freedom he had, resigning himself to life in a British jail cell, then so be it. John was just as powerless now as he’d been in Afghanistan, lying in the sand and waiting for death to find him. He’d been a fool to think he could change or that his redemption might be within reach.

In the end, all that waited for him was more of the same: failure. At least, in this one small thing — the choice between prolonging his suffering or giving in — John had a say. The options may be undesirable, but there were still options.

John’s hands curled into fists as a wave of helplessness rose and threatened to drown him. Rarely one to wallow, the sensation caught him off guard. It sucked away the last of his energy, draining the final bit of fight left.

He could see no way out.

When Sherlock had asked him for a second chance, pleaded with John to stay with him and help Sherlock finish his mission, John had struggled. He’d wanted to refuse — probably should have refused. But then Sherlock mentioned John’s freedom, his chance for redemption, and he’d felt swayed. Even in the small amount of time following his choice to grant Sherlock a second chance, John had felt tentative optimism. He’d felt there might be a chance for him. Felt like he’d finally been given his own second chance. That this was his opportunity to do better, to be better.

John had begun to hope. He’d allowed himself to believe in a future where he wasn’t on his own. Where he wasn’t an outcast, self-exiled and wandering without an end goal. 

Mycroft’s strong-arm had shattered any possibility of that future for John. He’d brought with him the threat of prison and worse; had backed John into a corner with no chance of escape. John was trapped, and it didn’t matter if he’d proved himself capable of change by giving Sherlock a second chance. Mycroft had snatched that away from him. John was no longer in control, no longer had the final say in his decision.

By taking John’s free will and trying to decide his future for him, Mycroft had forced John back into the same cage he’d fought to escape all his life. The cage that had let cruel men betray, torture and discard him. The one John had vowed never to step back into.

No matter how much he might want to help Sherlock, John couldn’t. Not now. Even if he changed his mind, John knew he would be roped into doing it Mycroft’s way. He would be forced into Mycroft’s world, a world John would rather die than rejoin. He’d meant what he said on the stairs. John had worked for men like Mycroft and knew he would be no better than a pawn. Just a piece to be moved with no regard for the outcome. Mycroft was a puppeteer, nothing more, and John refused to let himself become the puppet.

He would cut his own strings long before that happened.

Dropping his face into his hands, John sucked in a loud, shaky breath and gave himself over to a rising sense of defeat.

* * *

Sherlock remained standing on the stairs after John disappeared into his chosen room. He waited, not knowing what for, just simply waiting. He felt rooted in place, frowning at the space John had so recently occupied. Sherlock fancied he could sense John’s fading body heat, dissipating into the air where he’d stood.

Blending into the air that Sherlock inhaled deep into his lungs when he took a steadying breath. He waited to see if that might change him, this small intake of John’s existence, which might soon be gone from his life.

Nothing happened. Sherlock felt no different, and John didn’t return or make a sound inside his room. Slowly, Sherlock turned and descended the steps. He paused at the bottom, taking a moment to sort out his thoughts. His mind was a mess, a wash of swirling concepts that refused to fall into order.

Sherlock closed his eyes, took another deep breath and waited. It took some time, but he found his balance in the pause. As the fog gradually thinned, his mind clearing, Sherlock felt a sense of anger rising. He stood in the hall and let it grow. Let it flicker from a small spark to a guttering flame, feeding it to a fury. That fury sent him marching toward the dining room. His pace was unsteady, his hands jerking at his sides with restraint as Sherlock rounded the wall. He stopped short of the table, where Mycroft still sat.

His brother looked unperturbed, once more reading the newspaper. He didn’t bother to look up at Sherlock’s entrance.

Mycroft’s casual disregard for the outcome of his actions sent Sherlock over the edge. Did Mycroft not see what he’d done? Did he not care that he’d lost Sherlock what might have been his only chance at finishing the work he had ahead of him? Or had he seen straight through Sherlock, right to his desperate need and aching loneliness? Had he decided John must be removed lest Sherlock’s ‘fragile’ spirit be broken?

Mycroft had always isolated Sherlock, first in childhood with actions and words, and now in adulthood with his overprotectiveness. He’d called it ‘looking out for Sherlock,’ and Sherlock had let him do it. _But this time,_ Sherlock thought, _he’d gone too far._

It was a few quick strides to the table, and Sherlock took them with a scowl on his face. He rounded the chairs and snatched the newspaper from Mycroft’s hands. His brother immediately released the object, letting Sherlock toss it down onto the table. The sheets separated and slipped onto the floor, ignored by both brothers as they glared at one another.

“Sherlock—” Mycroft began, only to be cut off by Sherlock’s seething voice.

“Don’t,” he snapped, slamming a hand down on the table. “Don’t tell me to be civil or to behave myself or to see reason. That was underhanded and cruel. I expected better than that, even from you.” Sherlock huffed, planting both palms on the table as he leaned over his brother. “John doesn’t deserve what you did, and neither do I.”

Despite Sherlock’s furious display, Mycroft appeared unbothered. He sat back in his chair and favoured Sherlock with a pitying expression. It was infuriating, stoking Sherlock’s anger to new heights.

“All this for one man, Sherlock?” Mycroft sounded disappointed. “Are you sure it’s worth it?”

Sherlock stood up, his back straightening with the force of his indignation. “Excuse me?” he hissed, hands pressing hard against his sides. “Is it _worth it?_ He’s a human being, Mycroft — not something for you to toy with.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Do you remember what I told you when Redbeard died?”

Sherlock twitched at the non-sequitur and the reminder of his childhood dog. “Don’t use Redbeard as a metaphor again, Mycroft. I was a child, I reacted as any child would.”

“You’re not giving me much of a choice, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, pursing his lips in disapproval. “Now, tell me — do you remember what I told you after Mummy had to have him put down?”

Sherlock grimaced. _“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock,”_ he parroted, pushing the remembered words out with evident disdain. “And I listened to you, didn’t I? All my life, Mycroft, I’ve never had friends — not real ones. Nothing I could call a proper relationship. No true intimacy, nothing like what other people have.” Sherlock’s fingers curled with restrained anger, nails digging into his palms. “I’ve had so little because of what you taught me, and what did it get me in the end? _This?”_ Sherlock waved a hand to indicate the kitchen, the safe house, the MI6 men patrolling outside. “You said distancing myself from others would keep me safe, and did it?” He snorted. “Far from it. Do you know why it was so easy for Moriarty to turn everyone against me?”

Mycroft didn’t reply. He sat and waited, and Sherlock seethed.

“Because he didn’t have to work hard to make people hate me. Didn’t have to work hard to make them question me. Why? Because people never _liked_ me and they didn’t _trust me._ Oh, sure, they’d call me to help with their mysteries, their murders and their cases.” Sherlock scoffed, glaring at his brother with colour rising into his face. “They called me when they needed me, but when I needed them to believe in me, no one did.”

Mycroft interrupted, “Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade—”

 _“Don’t count,”_ Sherlock hissed, slamming a fist down against the table. Mycroft jumped and quickly schooled his expression flat.

Sherlock sneered at him. “They don’t count, because who will listen to them? An old woman with a shady past and a discredited DI? No, Mycroft. When it mattered the most, all your advice failed me. Because I didn’t bother to make people like me, because I was always _bloody sandpaper,”_ Sherlock snarled the words, ignoring Mycroft’s pitying expression. “I’ve always rubbed people the wrong way. And part of that is my own fault, but you are not free of blame here, Mycroft. Thanks to all your ‘advice,’ _I’m alone.”_ He spat the last, furious at his own sentimental drivel and at his brother for making him abhor sentiment in the first place.

Mycroft listened with a thoughtful expression on his face. It was a long moment before he spoke again, and he did so cautiously. “Do you really believe that, Sherlock? Do you truly think I’ve led you down so wrong a path?” He paused, frowned, and added, “Am I not a close person in your life?”

Sherlock huffed out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “You’re family, Mycroft,” he said in disdain. “I never _chose_ you. And I hardly have many choices when you make it your business to control every aspect of my life. No.” Sherlock shook his head again and pressed his nails into his palms. “I’ve always done what you said to, I believed you knew best, and it has gotten me nothing.” He dropped his gaze to the floor, scowling before looking up again.

Finally, Mycroft looked affected, Sherlock’s words seeming to have some impact.

He pulled in a breath before adding, “For all your meddling, all your belief that you know what’s best, you’ve done nothing but back me into a corner. What you just did to John was worse because I’m sure you thought you’d get what you wanted, didn’t you?”

Mycroft was silent, watching Sherlock with keen eyes. He didn’t speak or make a response, and Sherlock huffed.

“Instead, you’ve cost me the one person who might have helped end all this, and that’s on you.”

Mycroft went still, his body stiffening. He straightened his back and narrowed his eyes, pinning Sherlock with a cold stare. “You can’t trust him, Sherlock.” Nodding toward the stairs to indicate John, Mycroft shook his head with disgust. “When push came to shove, Captain Watson chose prison over helping you. What does that tell you about the kind of man he is?” He fixed Sherlock with a hard stare. “Clearly, he’s a coward and no good to you. If I hadn’t pushed him as I did, you might not have found that out until it was too late. Wouldn’t you rather know now?”

Most of Mycroft’s words faded into white noise, washing over Sherlock unheeded. One statement stood out, repeating in his mind with the force of a lightning bolt: _coward._

_Coward. Clearly, he’s a coward and no good to you._

Something inside of Sherlock snapped. Sucking in a loud breath, he straightened his shoulders and stared at his brother. He felt cold. Felt like an ice storm made human, frozen but for the burning heat of anger deep at his core.

“John’s a coward?” Sherlock said slowly, repeating the insult in a flat, breathless tone. “John is the coward? _John?”_ His lips twisted, a strained laugh escaping. “No, Mycroft, you are. _You_ are the coward. And I’m worse for standing by and letting you do this. I’m an idiot for thinking you were ever of any real benefit to me.” Leaning forward, Sherlock stopped with his face inches from Mycroft’s, his expression challenging. “I don’t care if this is your safe house or not, Mycroft. If you don’t leave right now, I’ll throw you out myself.” He moved to leave the room, but Mycroft spoke and called him back.

“Sherlock, we need to plan out our next steps.”

Sherlock froze, turning slowly to face his brother. “Next steps?” he repeated, his voice flat and edging toward incredulous. _“What_ next steps?”

Hands folded on the table, Mycroft watched him with a thoughtful expression. “With your cover compromised, it’s no longer safe for you to travel to Serbia. Intel says they are expecting you. If you go, they will most certainly take you.” Fingers laced together, Mycroft offered a coaxing expression. “If that were to happen, I estimate it might take as long as four months before I could attempt a rescue mission. You might not survive that long.”

Rooted in place by Mycroft’s words, Sherlock stared. He tried to process Mycroft’s estimations, attempted to glean some sense from them in the wake of what had just happened with John. It was a long moment before the tumultuous anger hazing his thoughts cleared enough for him to reply.

“Of course I’m not going to Serbia,” Sherlock snapped. “I’m not going anywhere because you took my only chance at success and threatened to throw him in prison.” Spitting the words from a tight-lipped grimace of anger, Sherlock slashed a furious hand throw the air. “Make it right, Mycroft. Or you can watch me disappear. Don’t think I won’t do it.”

Turning on his heel, refusing to grant Mycroft the chance to respond, Sherlock fled the kitchen. He trotted upstairs and into his room. He closed the door behind and locked it but didn’t flop across the bed as he so wanted. While a strop was tempting, it wouldn’t achieve anything. What Sherlock needed was a plan. A next step, a move that would get both him and John out of Mycroft’s carefully-set trap.

But when he tried to conceive of one, his mind only echoed with the anger humming through his body. Shoving his fingers through his curls with a growl, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus. He needed something, anything — whatever it took to turn the tables on his brother.

Agitated, Sherlock began to pace. From one end of the room to the other, his feet hushing over the carpet, his fingers tugging intermittently at his curls. He reviewed the conversations, both with Mycroft and John, and the one with both. Sherlock combed through every word, studying reactions and interactions, plucking out statements like physical objects.

There was no way John would change his mind, and Sherlock wouldn’t ask him to. He couldn’t request that of John, couldn’t ask John to abandon the promise he’d made to himself after surviving the horrors of Afghanistan. Sherlock wouldn’t do that. Though he still wanted John on his side, Mycroft had made that an impossibility with his ultimatum. He’d cinched John into a trap using Sherlock’s need, leaving them both without the upper hand.

Unless.

Halfway through his eighth circuit, Sherlock paused. He halted in place and blinked, staring at the door with an unfocused gaze.

Unless Sherlock removed John as a bargaining piece. If John disappeared, Mycroft couldn’t trap him. It wasn’t a guarantee that Sherlock could even pull it off, and the margin for error was far more significant than he would have liked, but there was potential.

Take John out of the picture, and Mycroft would be left with nothing.

Sherlock sank onto the edge of the bed. Ever since John had chosen to ally himself with Sherlock, forced to or not, Sherlock had been doing his best to keep the two of them together. Despite his guilt, he’d believed he was doing the right thing. Keeping them together had kept the two of them alive more than once. Sherlock had believed he and John staying together was the best course of action.

But Mycroft had taken that one step too far and forced John into a situation he refused to accept. Now, Sherlock keeping him was doing more harm than good. Sherlock might not know John that well, but he believed what John had told him on the stairs, that he wouldn’t put himself under the command of men who saw him as a chess piece. Sherlock didn’t doubt him.

Nor did he doubt Mycroft’s stubborn tenacity. If he said John’s only choices were to help Sherlock, with the government's collar around his neck, or spend the rest of his days in prison, then those were his only choices.

Unless Sherlock changed the game. Unless he revised the terms and turned the tables, put John back in control.

It hadn’t worked with Moriarty, and, in the end, Sherlock had been forced to play the madman’s game. But this was different — this was his brother. And while Mycroft often gained the upper hand in their youth, he was in over his head here. He wasn’t made for fieldwork, wasn’t interested in getting his hands dirty. But John was. Sherlock was as well, albeit more reluctant. Mycroft knew this, but he saw John as a bartering chip, no doubt viewed him as a means of controlling Sherlock. Remove John from the picture, and Mycroft had nothing. Sherlock would also have nothing, but it was high time he thought past his own needs. He’d walked John into this trap, and he wouldn’t stand by and let him be caught like a fly in a spider’s web. Sherlock had been the fly once, trapped by Moriarty’s sticky reach, and he didn’t wish that on John.

Not on John, who had saved his life more than once. He’d risked his freedom and lost it, all for Sherlock. The least Sherlock could do was return the favour.

His mind made up, Sherlock rose. He paused to straighten his clothing, stopping at the mirror to fix his steam-curled hair and smooth wrinkles from his dress shirt. Satisfied with his appearance, he slipped out of the bedroom. Sherlock lingered for a moment, eyeing John’s closed door, wondering if he should approach. He tried to imagine crossing the hall to knock on the door. Would John answer? Would he even bother to call out and tell Sherlock to fuck off?

The fact that Sherlock couldn’t predict the answer spoke volumes. It reminded him that he and John were still strangers — that they didn’t really know one another. But Sherlock wanted that to change. He wanted to know John and for John to know him.

Before Mycroft’s proposal, that might have been possible, but now it seemed they wouldn’t get the chance. Not unless Sherlock took drastic measures to regain the upper hand. If all went as he hoped, he might be able to give John the opportunity to choose sides of his own volition.

There was always the chance that John might prioritize his own freedom over Sherlock’s need, but that was a risk to take. If Sherlock’s impromptu plan worked out the way he needed it to, John would have that chance. Whether or not he decided to take it, Sherlock would have to wait and see.

First, he needed to see a man about a bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 4 who? Redbeard was a dog.


	22. Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With John backed into a corner by Mycroft, Sherlock risks everything to turn the tables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure you read my author's note in the endnotes! Happy Friday, y'all! 😘
> 
> Art in this chapter by [kettykika78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettykika78/pseuds/kettykika78)

The sound of raised voices made its way up to John in his room. The noise brought him out of his daze, forcing him out of his head and back into reality. Lifting his face from his hands, John frowned. Head cocked, he listened, straining to bring the voices into clarity. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but the speaker sounded like Sherlock.

He sounded furious.

With the corner of his mouth quirking upward in reluctant, grim amusement, John listened to the rising tone of Sherlock’s ire. If John had any remaining uncertainty that Sherlock had no hand in Mycroft’s duplicity, here was the irrefutable proof to wash his suspicions away.

John sat and listened, blinking in the brief quiet, missing the lower registers of speech that didn’t quite reach the second floor. It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps, first approaching, then climbing the stairs. There was a pause, and John sucked in a breath. His eyes fixed on the bottom of the door, tracking the shadow that lingered there. He was forcibly reminded of the almost-ambush at the hotel in Midar.

Just as he had then, John held his breath until his lungs ached, not quite daring to let it out.

He stared and waited, wondering what he wanted to happen. The longer the moment stretched, the more John couldn’t decide if he wished for Sherlock to approach the door. Did John want him to knock and demand entrance? Was he hoping Sherlock would demand they talk about Mycroft’s trap?

The part of him that craved a confrontation with Sherlock was nearly as loud as the part snarling for Sherlock to stay away. It was a cautious voice, one that commanded John to build up his fury and name both Holmes brothers as a common enemy. The two conflicting sides made John’s head ache, and he struggled to make a choice.

Sherlock made the decision for him. His shadow disappeared, and John heard the hush of his footsteps fade, followed by the sound of Sherlock’s bedroom door closing across the hall.

A faint flicker of adrenaline, inspired by John’s warring thoughts, drained away. The emptiness it left behind made John feel heavy, made him feel numb. Releasing his held breath in a rush, he collapsed back onto the mattress. With his legs hanging off the edge, feet kicking idly just above the floor, John stared at the ceiling. He frowned, mulling over the angry voices heard from downstairs.

Sherlock didn’t support his brother’s decision. He’d protested against Mycroft trying to force John’s hand with an ultimatum. As John thought back over the discussion in the kitchen, he saw there was some small semblance of comfort to be had in that, even if the situation itself inspired little hope.

John folded his arms behind his head. Skull pillowed on his hands, he closed his eyes against the shadows cast across the ceiling. The room was warm, the outside heating up as the day wore on. John’s skin felt sticky, both with old sweat and the new perspiration that rose with the climbing heat. He pushed the sensation aside and tried to focus. John needed a plan, even if it was nothing more than going to his future jail cell with silent dignity.

He’d barely begun to delve into his thoughts when a noise caught his attention. It sounded like a door opening, and John sat upright at once. He stared at his own door, thinking it was Sherlock leaving his room again before pinpointing the sound as farther away.

The front door.

John stiffened, listening with tension humming throughout his body. He waited for the sound of boots on the stairs. Waited to hear guns being cocked and commands shouted through the door. Teeth clenched, he tensed and prepared himself for an ambush.

Nothing came. The seconds stretched out. Armed men never arrived to drag him away to be tried and sentenced, but John stayed ready. It was only when he heard voices outside the house that he finally moved, surging to his feet and crossing to the window. Looking outside, John saw the gate pushed open, the black sedan they’d arrived in backing slowly down the drive. He watched it pull out onto the road and drive down the block, refusing to look away until it was out of sight.

It disappeared from view, and the gate swung shut. With one hand braced on the window frame, John closed his eyes and listened. The house was silent. Except… there, the sound of footsteps. He listened harder, trying to hear past the sound of his heartbeat until he identified the noise.

Pacing, in the room across the hall, and quiet mumbling. Sherlock.

John’s breath rushed out in a loud exhale. He felt a strange flicker of comfort, hearing Sherlock talking to himself in the next room. John let himself listen for a moment, trying not to drop his guard. After a moment, he forced himself to focus again, listening to the rest of the house.

Aside from Sherlock’s quiet noises, it was silent.

John sank back onto the edge of the bed and tried to work the tension from his body. He rolled his shoulders and rubbed at his healing thigh, but to no avail. The heaviness cramping his muscles remained, forcing him to give up with a sigh. Still feeling sticky and grimy, John’s thoughts turned to a shower. He hadn’t had one since the night before, and, with the potential of prison looming in his future, it might be a while before he had the opportunity again. He should take advantage of the safe house’s luxuries while he still had the chance.

His mind made up, John rose. He turned to the remaining clothes on the dresser and was in the process of sorting through them when he heard Sherlock’s door open.

John froze, his head turning toward the sound. His breathing dropped into a shallow rhythm, and he waited to see what would happen. Waited for Sherlock to approach his room or call out. Eyes fixed on the bottom of the door, John stared at the shadow blocking the light from the hallway. Again, there was a lingering hesitation, a moment where he thought Sherlock would surely knock on his door and initiate a dialogue.

John was felt a mixture of disappointment and relief when Sherlock once more moved away from his room. John listened as he descended the stairs, the front door closing a moment later.

Eyes dropping to his hands, John frowned. He held still and waited to see if Sherlock would return. He didn’t, and, as the seconds stretched out into minutes, John decided he’d left the house. The thought was followed by a flicker of dread, as John wondered if that meant Sherlock was gone. Sherlock might have only stepped outside for a moment, but John couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than that.

Something in him told John that Sherlock was gone. If so, would he come back? If he’d left, did that mean John was alone? Had he left because John was no longer of use to him? By refusing to accept Mycroft’s offer, had John pushed away his last chance at an ally?

John clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. The implications of Sherlock leaving inspired a myriad of fears, including the potential risk of him cutting ties with John. It wasn’t impossible. John had made it clear that his decision was final, and Sherlock said his brother was a man of his word. Maybe the raised voices he’d heard downstairs was Sherlock coming to terms with the outcome. Perhaps, even as John stood here and thought these useless things, the MI6 men were on their way into the house.

Maybe the safe house would stand as John’s prison until he could be extradited back to England. Maybe that had been the final agreement between the brothers: John had made his bed and was meant to lie in it, and Sherlock had vacated the premises accordingly.

Maybe he was already on his way to whatever the next part of his mission was, John discarded as no more than a bitter memory.

Maybe Sherlock had never really needed John in the first place, and Mycroft’s proposal was just a means to an end. John had assumed the raised voices were Sherlock protesting Mycroft’s treatment of him, but perhaps John had misunderstood. For all he knew, the conversation downstairs had nothing to do with him. What did John know? He didn’t know Sherlock, that much was for sure. He was as much a stranger to John as John was to him.

John stood in front of the dresser with his eyes closed and his heart racing, waiting for whatever came next. But the longer he waited, the more apparent it became that nothing was happening, and he finally opened his eyes.

The house had fallen silent. Sherlock had still not returned, and no one burst into the room to drag John away. Whatever was happening, it had already happened or would happen in the future. For now, John appeared to have been left to his own devices. But John remained wary. He wasn’t stupid enough to think the house was unguarded.

He glanced toward the window and saw one of the agents making his rounds across the property. They were still out there.

Turning his attention back to the clothes in his hands, John breathed in a steadying inhale. He stared at the fine material, rubbing his thumbs over the stitching of a pair of trousers. He waited until he felt balanced once more and slowly set them back on top of the dresser.

With nothing left to do but wait for whatever outcome might be rushing toward him, John went for his shower.

* * *

It didn’t take Sherlock long to find the MI6 man he was looking for. It was the same one who had tried to insist on searching John upon their arrival, only to be shut down by Sherlock’s deductions. He was patrolling the side of the house opposite John’s room, and Sherlock accosted him mid-step.

“Excuse me.” He paused, realized he didn’t know the man’s name, and added, “You, agent,” for clarification.

The agent paused and swung about at Sherlock’s hail. His hand drifted to the gun on his hip, falling away when he saw who it was. His defensive posture communicated an air of annoyance rather than one of suspicion. Still, the wary look on his face didn’t fade. Clearly, the memory of their last interaction was still fresh in his mind.

“Mister Holmes,” he replied, eyeing Sherlock with evident dislike, “is there something I can do for you… sir?” He added the last seemingly as an afterthought.

Sherlock eyed him back. “What is your name?”

The agent pursed his lips. For a moment, Sherlock thought he would refuse to answer. But his training was too deeply ingrained, and he did so grudgingly, “Agent Laurie, sir.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Agent Laurie,” Sherlock said in a flat voice that contradicted his words. “I was hoping you might be able to assist me in something.”

Laurie shot him a suspicious look. “What would that be… sir?” Again, the title was tacked on as a reluctant nicety. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the slight.

“Mine and Captain Watson’s bags. Where are they?” He’d scarcely finished voicing the query before Laurie tensed.

“Why do you ask, sir?” His eyes darted away before he looked back at Sherlock with apparent hesitance. “Agent Smith took care of your belongings, sir — maybe you should ask him.”

Sherlock grinned, his lips peeling back in a shark-like smile. “Ah, but I think you’re exactly the one I need.” _Lay the bait._

Laurie shot him a dubious look as his wariness increased. “Why is that, sir?” _Hook, line, and sinker._

Sherlock went in for the kill. “Because you’re not going to say no to me.”

Back straightening in piqued surprise, Laurie drew himself upright with a scowl. “Excuse me, sir? Why do you think that? Are you questioning my integrity?”

Sherlock’s smile widened. “Not at all, Agent. I’m merely noting that there are certain, ah, _things_ you wish to keep private. And that I’m a man with the ability to discover such things.”

The faint colour that had been rising in Laurie’s cheeks drained away. It left his face looking pallid and sallow. “What are you implying, sir?” he asked through his teeth.

Annoyed by the dithering, Sherlock huffed. “Have you already forgotten how easily I deduced your affairs?” When Laurie stayed stubbornly silent, staring at him with anger glinting in his eyes, Sherlock snapped, “Oh? Maybe you have.” Hands rising, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared hard at the agent. “Maybe we should talk about the unpleasant situation you’re involved in with one of your protected clients? The young man who works in finance?”

Laurie’s jaw clenched. He stared at Sherlock but didn’t speak.

Emboldened by his silence, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. His lips twitched with the smallest hint of a smirk. “I wonder what my brother would say if he knew one of his top agents was blackmailing someone he was assigned to protect?”

A muscle jumped in Laurie’s cheek. It was a tell and an obvious one at that.

Sherlock’s smirk grew. “Still need that reminder, Agent Laurie?”

Laurie swallowed, his throat bobbing with the action. “No,” he snapped, scowling. “I don’t believe I do.”

Sherlock flashed him a beatific smile, pleased by his success. Part of him wanted to continue, just to see how far he could go with the deductions before Laurie snapped. But Sherlock displayed uncharacteristic restraint and reined himself in. It wouldn’t do to push an armed MI6 agent too far. Instead, he tilted his head in a curt nod and said, “I’m glad to see that we understand one another.”

He received a sour look before Laurie glanced around the yard. Ensuring that they were still alone, he refocused on Sherlock. “You’re a right bastard, you know that?”

Sherlock offered an unperturbed shrug. “I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that this isn’t the first time I’ve been told such a thing. That said, you’d do well to note that my brother is far worse than I. And, yet, you still work for him.”

A flicker of some questionable expression passed over Laurie’s face, there and gone and making Sherlock look closer. But it was too quick, and he couldn’t pin it down long enough to discern the meaning.

“Whatever,” Laurie said before turning on his heel. “Let’s just get this over with.” He led Sherlock around the back of the house to a shed. It seemed that luck was on their side, as they didn’t encounter any of the other agents in the time it took to cross the yard.

“Where are the others?” Sherlock asked, peering around the edge of the house at the side-yard.

Laurie replied distractedly as he dug into his pockets, making his coat jangle. “Two went with your brother, and two stayed behind. I cover this side and the back, and Roberts takes the opposite and the front. When the car isn’t being used to transport someone, one of the two agents on duty keep watch on the street. Roberts will do that when the car is back. I’ll take over patrolling the perimeter until the next watch.” Laurie sounded almost bored, rattling off the details as if reading out a shopping list. “The others catch up on their sleep at another location when they’re off duty, but they’re never far.”

“I didn’t see anyone when I came outside,” Sherlock noted.

Pulling out a set of keys from a front pocket, Laurie shrugged. “Roberts was probably around the side.” He held the keys up and squinted, flicking through each to find the right one.

Sherlock watched with interest, wondering what other answers he might gain. If he asked his questions while Laurie was distracted, he’d probably learn far more than if Sherlock asked when he wasn’t. People often answered without thinking when their mind was otherwise preoccupied.

Tapping a finger to his bottom lip, he asked, “There aren’t always four of you outside?”

“Ah,” Laurie muttered, eyes lighting up when he seemed to find the right key. He turned to the shed door but not before answering, “No, not always. We work in shifts. Changes four times a day.”

With one shoulder leant against the side of the shed, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “Four times?” he repeated, feigning an idle tone. “That seems like a lot.”

Laurie blew out a sigh. “Not really.” He slipped the key into the lock and frowned when it stuck. “Shite.” He turned his attention back to the keyring with pursed lips.

“How often, then?” Sherlock asked. Laurie paused in his search and looked up, making Sherlock resist the urge to tense. He kept his body language open and calm, hoping to lull the man back into a false sense of security.

It seemed to work. Laurie returned to his search and selected a different key. “Like I said, four times. Noon, seventeen hundred hours, midnight, zero five in the morning.” This time, the key slid in without a hitch. The tumblers clicked in the lock as Laurie turned the handle. “Gotcha.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, maintaining the same disinterested facade. But his mind was whirling beneath the mask, fitting Laurie’s information into the puzzle of his plan. Things began to fall into place, and he resisted the urge to smirk as Laurie opened the door and pushed it inward.

He flicked on a light switch on the wall. “There are the bags,” he said, pointing into the shed.

The inside was small but organized, with metal shelves running along the back wall. Most were filled with the usual detritus used for home and yard care. But Sherlock spotted a few items that looked like they would be more at home in an underground military bunker than a backyard shed.

He made a note of the supplies and turned his focus back to his target. Sitting on the ground, set neatly together, were his and John’s duffles. Sherlock paused before stepping into the shed, half expecting Laurie to close the door on him and lock him inside. But the agent just stepped aside and crossed his arms, watching Sherlock with a petulant expression on his face.

Sherlock ignored him and crouched down beside the bags. He unzipped his first, checking inside. Relieved to find his laptop, gun, and lock picks intact and undisturbed, Sherlock closed the bag and turned to John’s. He was pleased when he felt the hard, cold outlines of both John’s weapons through a layer of clothing. He didn’t bother to check if they were still loaded. It looked like the bags hadn’t been searched or disturbed, just relocated and locked away.

He rose, slipping the bags onto his shoulders. They were heavy, making Sherlock huff at the unbalanced strain across his upper back. He was sore and exhausted, his body protesting the weight and reminding him that he was still concussed and underfed. Sherlock pushed the warnings away and straightened his protesting spine.

Laurie watched him from the door, his mouth thinning into a hard line. “Sir, I really must—” he began, only for Sherlock to speak over him.

“You ‘really must’ nothing,” Sherlock snapped, turning on him. John’s bag bumped against his ribs, making him suck in a breath. Shaking off the discomfort, he forced his forward steps to stay steady. When he was face to face with Laurie, he narrowed his eyes. “You will not speak of this to anyone, least of all my brother. Do you understand?”

Laurie stared at him. He looked like he might protest until Sherlock cocked his head to the side with his brows raised in silent warning. The agent subsided with a dour expression and a surly nod before stepping aside.

Pleased by the obedience, Sherlock pushed past him. He didn’t bother to look back, calling over his shoulder, “Thank you for your assistance, Agent Laurie. Do try to keep your cock in your pants in the future — it’ll make you far less susceptible to blackmail.” Without waiting for a response but hearing Laurie’s angry exhale, Sherlock quickly crossed the yard. Rather than risk being spotted entering the front door with the bags, he tested the back entrance, found it unlocked, and slipped inside.

The lack of security was mildly alarming, but Sherlock let it pass. He’d already prodded Laurie enough for one day. It wouldn’t do to call him out on the unlocked door, too. Locking it behind him, Sherlock moved through the kitchen. It was still empty, Mycroft has clearly gone for the day, undoubtedly to return like an unwanted storm cloud in the near future.

Sherlock carried the bags upstairs, ignoring the twinge in his shoulders. He felt woefully out of shape, his strength depleted by the lingering impacts of his injuries. A proper meal wouldn’t go amiss in his recovery, and Sherlock made a mental note to eat and sleep once things were back on track.

Whatever that might look like.

The thought caught Sherlock unawares and made his steps falter. He paused at the top of the stairs and looked at John’s closed door. If all went as Sherlock hoped, John would soon no longer be caught beneath Mycroft’s boot heel. But that also meant he would be free to make his own choices again, and there was every chance John would choose to leave. Though he’d agreed to give Sherlock another opportunity to make things right, that had been swept aside by Mycroft’s appearance.

There was no guarantee that John would choose to stay once he had the upper hand.

Shaking his head, Sherlock marched into his room. He couldn’t dwell on the possibility of John leaving. If he did, he would fall prey to his own selfish wants and needs and wouldn’t let John go. Sherlock needed to let him go if John wanted to leave. If there was any hope that John might choose to stay with him, be his ally and partner, then Sherlock needed to make it clear that it would be on John’s terms. He needed to make John understand that Sherlock wanted him as an equal, not as an enforced employee of Sherlock’s brother.

Once more firm in his motivations, Sherlock set his duffle on the bed. He stared down at it for a long moment, still stewing over his thoughts before his resolve strengthened.

Hefting John’s duffle higher onto his shoulder, Sherlock turned back to the door. He stared across the hall at John’s room until his feet finally listened to his brain and began to move. Crossing the hallway, Sherlock stopped before John’s closed door, pulled in a breath, and lifted his hand. There was another brief hesitation before Sherlock forced himself to knock. Hand falling back to his side, he waited, listening to the erratic beat of his heart as his pulse raced.

For a long moment, there was silence. Sherlock began to think John wouldn’t bother to answer and wondered if he should call out. He’d only just pulled in a breath when the handle turned, and the door opened to reveal John.

With one hand on the door jam, John looked up at Sherlock, his expression cautiously curious. He looked wary and tired, just the other side of defeated.

To Sherlock’s shock, he was clad in naught but a towel slung low on his hips. John's bare upper body was flushed, his skin still radiating warmth from a shower. Staring, Sherlock slowly registered the humidity drifting from the bathroom. Even with it permeating the hall, turning the air heavy and warm, Sherlock had been too caught up in his own thoughts to notice. His held breath rushed out at the sight of John’s near-nudity. His tongue, previously prepared with words, stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was all he could do not to choke on it as his mind went blank. Rooted in place, Sherlock watched a bead of water slip out of John’s damp hair and trickle down his neck. It made its way over a broad shoulder, along John’s left pec.

Sherlock quickly forced his gaze away before it could catch on a dusky pink nipple.

He redirected his focus to John’s face, hoping his own wasn’t as flushed as it felt. Desperate for any distraction, Sherlock searched for details, reading John's face like an open book. He saw that John’s eyes were red-rimmed. Not from crying, but from sheer exhaustion that went far beyond words. The reality of how John must feel, how Mycroft’s proverbial dropped bomb must have felt for him, rocked Sherlock back on his heels. It wiped away the confused arousal inspired by John’s towel-clad hips, leaving him feeling unbalanced by the sheer sentiment evident within his observations.

Sherlock was silent for so long that John began to shift from one foot to the other. He blinked, eyes darting over Sherlock’s body. They landed on the duffle slung over his shoulder, and John’s lips parted around a silent sigh.

“Sherlock?” John’s quiet tone was like a flash of heat, unfreezing Sherlock from where he stood, locked in place by his thoughts and John’s appearance. “What’s going on?” His forehead creased in a small frown. “Is that my bag?” John sounded as tired as he looked.

Something clenched in Sherlock’s chest. He thought it might be his heart and briefly wondered if he should see a doctor. But John was a doctor, and Sherlock could see him right now. Could see quite a lot of him, actually, thanks to the lack of clothing.

Wait — no. He was getting off track. Sherlock refocused. His thoughts were strange and messy, and he shoved them aside.

“It is,” Sherlock confirmed, slipping the strap off his shoulder. “And it’s time you had it back.” He dropped the bag at John’s feet and looked at him expectantly.

John looked back. He wet his lips and offered an uncertain expression. “I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

Sherlock blinked and shook his head to clear it. “Yes. This,” he pointed down to the bag resting at their feet, “is your get out of jail free card.”

Eyebrows drawing together, John looked down at the bag. There was an edge of longing in his expression when he looked up again. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was for him or the bag.

He didn’t dare to dwell on it.

“How so?” John asked.

Nudging the duffle with his foot, Sherlock said, “All your things are inside. Your passports, weapons, everything.” He sucked in a breath. Catching and holding John’s gaze, he released it on a loud exhale through his nose. “The agents outside work on a shift rotation. It changes four times a day. Noon, five in the evening, midnight, and five in the morning. When the car returns from dropping Mycroft off who-knows-where, the second guard will take it to watch the street.” Sherlock paused to check John’s expression.

He looked wary but attentive, a flicker of understanding brightening his eyes.

Sherlock took that as a good sign. “If you leave when the shift change happens, the yard will be clear, at least for a few minutes. You could cross through the back and go over the fence and probably escape notice.” Sherlock sucked in a breath and offered a tentative smile that he didn’t really mean. “As long as you keep out of sight of the car, you should be able to get clear before anyone checks the yard. If you leave early in the morning, I think you’ll have a better chance.” Finished, he let the words fill the air between them and slowly fade into silence.

John went on staring at him. His expression was unreadable, and he didn’t blink until he dropped his gaze to the bag again. Focused on it instead of looking at Sherlock, he asked, “Is this what I think it is?”

Hands shifting at his sides, betraying his nervousness, Sherlock cleared his throat. “What do you think it is?”

John looked up again. His eyes were as impossible to read as his face, and Sherlock frowned.

“Are you helping me escape?”

Relieved that John seemed to understand, Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he replied, simultaneously pleased and stricken, “I am.”

Shaking his head slowly with a dazed expression, John asked, “Why?”

“Because…” Sherlock paused, trying to choose his words carefully. “Because you deserve the opportunity to make a real choice, John.” He swallowed, throat suddenly tight, his mouth dry. “You said every decision made so far has been out of your hands. And, maybe me doing this, bringing this idea to you like this, is a bit like I’m still controlling the narrative. But John,” Sherlock’s resolve wavered, and he forced himself to hold steady, “you can leave. If you want to, you can. You can go wherever you want. I can’t promise that Mycroft won’t follow you, and I can only assume your ex-employers might try to find you. I have no control over either of those matters. But I have some power here. I can do this.” Sherlock dropped his gaze, squinting at the bag. “I can give you this chance.”

Silence followed his declaration. Sherlock waited, hardly daring to look up in case he spotted something in John’s face that would make him want to take it all back. It was crucial that he follow-through — that he give John the chance to decide.

John finally spoke, his voice soft and cautious. “I thought… I thought you needed my help?”

Sherlock grimaced. He wanted to look up, wanted to make sure John knew how much he was needed.

Instead, he forced himself to remain impassive. “I did. I _do,”_ he corrected, emphasizing the delineation. “But what Mycroft did, that was… I won’t be a part of his plotting. If you choose to leave, then that’s your decision, John.” Unable to resist any longer, Sherlock looked up to check John’s expression.

John was still staring at him, his dark eyes thoughtful, searching Sherlock’s face as their gazes met.

“I won’t argue with your decision whatever you choose,” Sherlock said quietly. He let the statement land and waited for John to speak again. But he didn’t. He continued to study Sherlock’s face with his brow furrowed, his mouth turned down at the corners.

It was almost more than Sherlock could stand, and he began to shift as the scrutiny started to feel unbearable. John standing there in a towel, looking at him with such intensity, wasn’t something Sherlock’s concussed mind could handle for much longer.

“Yes, well,” he said, fidgeting with his sleeve. “That’s all.” Clearing his throat, Sherlock waited for a tick longer, just to see if John would reply.

John opened his mouth but didn’t speak. He cocked his head, frown deepening, and closed it again. He looked down at the bag with an unreadable expression.

The tightness rising in Sherlock’s chest blossomed to an ache. “Right.” Tipping his head in a curt nod, Sherlock cleared his throat and took a step back. “I’ll just, ah. I’ll let you,” he gestured vaguely and nodded again, “do what you need to do.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock turned on his heel. He crossed the short distance to his own bedroom and left John staring at the bag. The sound of the door as it closed behind him, a resolute click of metal against strike plate, sounded all too final.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author Note:** Just a heads up that there likely won't be any updates for _Hired Gun_ next week. I've been sick for a week, and a lot of my writing time has been eaten up lately by meetings as I deal with some ongoing professional matters. I feel that my focus hasn't been on this story the way it should be, and I'm going to take next week to catch up, rest, and regroup instead of burning out and letting this story suffer for it. There's always the chance I might hit a surge and write anyways, so it's not set in stone that there won't be an update next week, but the heads up is there in case I do take the time off (and I really should 😅 ).
> 
> If no chapters are posted next week, then the regular posting schedule will resume on February 9th. Thanks!


	23. Into the Depths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock muses over John's past, and John makes a decision about his future.
> 
> TW for mentions of past torture/scars in this chapter. Also, weird nightmares about drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a moment to thank everyone for the immense amount of kindness received when I announced I was taking a week off from this story. The break did me good, and I am feeling refreshed, recovered and ready to get back into the universe of _Hired Gun._ Thank you, all of you, again for being so lovely ♥️

It took thirty-four seconds for John to unfreeze.

Stunned and struck dumb by Sherlock’s unexpected gesture, John watched Sherlock back away from him. He tried to speak, but his mouth opened around silence, and Sherlock’s bedroom door closed before John could regain his wits. His escape left John standing in the doorway with the bag at his feet and no idea what to say.

When words finally did form, they arrived far too late. John was already alone. The opportunity had passed, and John shook himself out of the lingering daze. Bending down, he grabbed the strap of his bag and dragged it out of the hallway. He paused to close the door before turning to face the bedroom.

Back pressed against the door, John stared at the duffle bag. It sat at his feet, silent and game-changing. John was still reeling from the shift in his power dynamic, trying to accept what had happened. It was a shock, this sudden change from a reluctant prisoner by someone — Sherlock, no less — handing John his freedom in the form of a duffle full of weapons, ammo and passports.

The implication of it all made John’s head spin.

He pulled in a ragged breath and continued to stare at the bag. There was no doubt that it was his — John recognized the familiar wear and tear on the canvas. Noticed the patch he’d stuck to the side to cover the rip he’d acquired when he was on a job in Malta. The strap was worn where it rubbed when the bag hung off his good shoulder, and John knew that he would find a London Underground pin if he looked within. It was small, stuck to the inside canvas in the early days when John still wanted to remind himself of the city he’d once called home.

Several seconds passed before John managed to pry his gaze away from the bag. He did so with difficulty, and only because a shiver ripped through his frame. Even with the heat outside, he still wore nothing but a damp towel, and the door was cold against his back.

He shook his head again and moved further into the room. John stepped cautiously around the bag, wary of it the way a bomb squad might be suspicious of an abandoned knapsack at the airport. Eyeing the duffle as if it might very well contain a bomb of its own, John moved to the dresser and began to pull on clothing before he paused. Turning back to the bag, John frowned. He glanced at the clothes he’d discarded that morning, provided for him by Sherlock’s brother. The same man who wanted John jailed or trapped into a one-sided deal.

He didn’t feel much like accepting the charity of the man who had forced him into a corner.

The choice was easy. John dismissed the gifted clothes in favour of his own. Picking up the duffle, he set it on the bed, eyeing the familiarity of it. He allowed himself to feel a few seconds of amazement that Sherlock had been the one to return it to him before unzipping the main compartment.

Inside, John found that everything was just as he’d left it. His guns, his clothes, the ammunition and passports and blades were all accounted for. Still wrestling with his lingering disbelief, John reached inside and pulled out his Sig. The gun fit into his grip as if made for John’s hand, and he felt an immediate sense of comfort when his fingers curled around the cold metal.

A sigh escaped his lips, taking some of the remaining tension he felt with it. Stress that had refused to dissipate under the hot water of his shower finally fled, letting John take in what felt like his first full breath since the morning. He took a moment to inhale deeply, trying to accept that the tables had been turned in his favour. That Sherlock had been the one to turn them. Sherlock had stressed how important John was when it came to Sherlock regaining his life, yet he’d done this. Sherlock had impressed upon John just how much he needed him and had still put John first. 

Sherlock had placed the choice of whether or not John stayed back into John’s own hands. He wasn’t an idiot — he knew John might leave. But Sherlock had taken John’s words to heart and given him the control John needed. It was both deeply humbling and confusing to realize what Sherlock had done for him. Knowing that he’d gone directly against his brother and sided with John was… startling.

Startling and a little bit terrifying.

John set the gun down on the bed before sitting on the edge of the mattress. He closed his eyes and sucked in a loud inhale, trying to ignore it when the fingers of his left hand began to twitch. Balling them into a tight fist, he exhaled, long and slow, and opened his eyes again.

Sherlock’s gesture had changed everything, and John wasn’t sure what that meant or where the two of them now stood. John had been given a gift: the chance to decide what came next, finally on his own terms. It was what he’d wanted from the start, but now that he had it, John found that he was torn. That morning, Sherlock asked him to stay, and John had agreed to give him a chance. He’d only rescinded the offer when Mycroft backed him into a corner. Things had changed: the situation was no longer the same.

John didn’t know what to do.

Sherlock had taken a chance and done something John never could have predicted from him. He’d put John’s autonomy over his own wants, his own needs. And, now, John could leave. He _should_ leave. Sherlock was right. There was no guarantee that Mycroft wouldn’t try to find John. Nothing was stopping Mycroft from having John’s belongings seized again, stripping away what little power John had. He should leave while he still could. Before the choice was taken from him by Mycroft and his armed goons. John would leave. He would.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror across the room, John wasn’t sure he really believed his own thoughts. The more he turned the dilemma over, the more he realized he should go. It was the best course of action. Leaving meant no more risk, no more being helpless to the machinations of the Holmes brothers. If John left, he’d be the one calling the shots again. For good. It made sense for him to go. It made sense, but still, he hesitated.

John shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face. Whatever decision he made, first, he needed to get dressed: clothes, then resolution. He could do that much. 

John dug suitable garments out of the duffle, slipping into the familiar comfort of a well-worn pair of jeans and a long-sleeved grey shirt. The clothes were nothing like the expensive wear left for him on the dresser, but John felt far more like himself in his own clothing. They fit him in all the right places, hugging his body with simple fabric worn down from years of wear. The jeans were soft against his knees, the denim faded by hours spent kneeling with a gun in hand and John's heart in his throat. The shirt fit him like a second skin with memories — both comforting and awful — clinging to the fibres. John felt better in his own clothes. He finally felt _recognizable_.

He dressed quickly, efficiently, shoving the gifted clothes into the dresser without a second glance. The luxurious feeling of the fabric beneath his fingers brought John’s mind back to Sherlock. With the damp towel in one hand and his eyes on the duffle bag, John thought about Sherlock’s intensity. Standing in John’s doorway, he’d appeared lit up with tension, resolute in his decision, looking like he had something to say.

Then his eyes had dropped to John’s towel-clad body, Sherlock’s expression wiped blank. Caught in the moment, John had steeled himself for the inevitable. He’d waited for the deductions to fall from Sherlock’s full lips. John had readied himself for the onslaught, knowing Sherlock could read the history of his torture in every ropey scar. Could see the memories in each pitted mark marring John’s chest, torso, sides and stomach.

But no such deductions had come. Sherlock, blinking, had refocused before launching into his explanation. He’d simply dropped the bag and stepped away, leaving John to his current thoughts — leaving him to make his own decisions.

John was still baffled by the retreat. When Sherlock first glimpsed the scars on his back in Midar, his reaction had been hard to miss. John noticed the burning curiosity in Sherlock’s gaze and prepared himself for the questions. But this time, faced with the entirety of the cruel history etched into John’s skin by blade and fire and bullet, Sherlock hadn’t reacted the same. Instead of spotting curiosity, horror, or disgust in his face, John had glimpsed something entirely unexpected.

He’d seen hunger. Sherlock looked at him, and his expression had been _hungry_. That was the only name John could give to the look that had crept over Sherlock’s face. He’d looked hungry, a little wistful, his eyes sparkling with longing. A longing John recognized because he’d felt the same when he’d trimmed his beard and imagined the red marks it might leave on the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.

If he’d been less floored by Sherlock’s gesture, John wondered what he might have done. Would he have opened his mouth and immediately put his foot in it? Would he have reached for Sherlock?

Would Sherlock have reached for him? 

But Sherlock had retreated. He’d turned tail and left, leaving John with far more questions than answers. Sherlock had looked at John with such longing only to forcefully claw that emotion back, dropping both the bag and his words at John’s feet before retreating.

Damp towel still clutched in his hand, nearly forgotten, John couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed. His emotions were a muddle and couldn’t be trusted. The entire day had been a whirlwind, and John couldn’t keep up with it all. He’d woken that morning thinking himself trapped, only to have it confirmed and contradicted in immediate short order.

How was he meant to make a choice in the face of all that had happened?

John’s eyes shifted back to the bag on the bed and the gun set next to it. Looking at the weapon, watching sunlight glint off the black metal, he knew his confusion over Sherlock’s reactions didn’t change anything. None of it mattered: not John’s feelings or whatever expression Sherlock wore when he looked at John in nothing but a towel. Grand gesture or not, John was still caught between a rock and a hard place with a decision to make.

He should leave. Leaving made sense.

So why did the thought make something constrict in John’s chest? Why did he feel sick, right down to his core, at the possibility of never seeing Sherlock again?

His stomach chose that moment to growl, forcing John to take stock of his physical needs. Shaking the myriad confusion of his thoughts aside, John focused on what his body was telling him. He was still tired, though the adrenaline inspired by Sherlock’s appearance had pressed the feeling back from heavy exhaustion to a far more manageable fatigue. That left room for other physical needs and his body made its hunger clear in the empty sensation sitting deep in his stomach.

 _Food first,_ John decided. Then he could plan his next steps.

John tucked the gun back into the duffle and pushed the bag beneath the bed. He hesitated, lingering, struck with a sense of unease at the thought of leaving the room unattended. Reminding himself that there was no one else in the house save for himself and Sherlock didn’t banish the disquiet. John tried to rationalize with his wary mind.

Sherlock wouldn’t bring John the bag, only to take it away again the second John left the room unattended. The MI6 agents might have no such qualms, but if John was downstairs, he’d be aware of their entering the house before they reached upstairs. The thought wasn’t entirely comforting. If the agents entered the house planning to take John into custody, there wasn’t much he could do about it. And he couldn’t blindly rely on Sherlock to intervene, not when he’d already done so much.

John let his instincts dictate his decision. He dropped into a crouch and dragged the bag out from beneath the bed, tension ticking along the edge of his jaw. Without a lick of hesitation, he delved inside to retrieve the Sig. Finger closing around the gun, John held it in his hands for a moment, relishing the familiar weight. Lips pursed, his expression thoughtful, he stared at the weapon before shifting to tuck it away beneath his shirt. He rose, the cold contact of metal against the taut skin of his lower back sending a shiver through his body. It made John stand taller, made him feel like a missing piece of him had been restored.

Embracing that surge of confidence and comfort, John left the room. He glanced at Sherlock’s closed door but didn’t linger. Instead, he descended the stairs and moved into the kitchen. It was empty, as was the sitting room across the hall, to John’s relief. He glimpsed a man through the window, patrolling the side yard with a blank expression.

John clenched his jaw before turning away.

Searching through the well-stocked fridge, John pulled together the fixings for a ham and cheese sandwich. He ate over the sink without tasting a thing and watched the yard through the window, lost in his thoughts. The same agent passed by ten minutes later, John tracking his progress with unblinking eyes. He didn’t move until the man disappeared from view again.

Finished with his rushed meal, John brushed crumbs from his palms. His eyes strayed to the cupboards. He hesitated for a moment before pulling them open and staring at the stocked food. Rather than give himself the chance to change his mind, John began snagging random items. Canned goods, a box of crackers, whatever looked non-perishable and like it might provide quick, easy sustenance.

Arms full of raided food, John moved toward the stairs, pausing to snag several pieces of fruit from the bowl on the counter. On his way back up to his room, John tried to tell himself he was just being thorough. The food was just him taking precautions. Who knew what might happen now that he could be dragged out of the house in cuffs? The food stocks meant nothing. It was all just in case.

As he loaded the food into his duffle, John carefully avoided looking at the London Underground button pinned inside. 

* * *

The temptation to hide out in his bedroom for the rest of the day kept Sherlock locked in place for most of the morning.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stared at the door, a frown digging a deep groove into the skin between his brows. When he did manage to shake himself back to alertness, Sherlock went about the motions of caring for himself with the bare minimum of focus. He filled his aching, empty stomach with food, relieved his bladder and drank two glasses of water. His head felt much better, sleep and rest improving his functions. The pain had almost entirely disappeared, his movements plagued only occasionally by a distant thud.

Sherlock attended to his transport with half his mind, letting the other half work through the day’s events. His brain whirred and processed and filed, sorting through information and slotting it into place.

Once his body was no longer shouting to have its needs met, Sherlock returned to his room. Sinking down onto the bed, he stared at the wall again. That same frown reappeared, that deep indent settling between his brows. Eventually, struck by dragging fatigue, he laid down. Long limbs spread out across the luxurious bed, Sherlock rested his head on the pillow and slipped into his Mind Palace.

He sank deep, descending far down into the depths of his own mind. There, he wandered. He traversed a winding staircase, fingers drifting over pitted wallpaper, slipping over to sleek, polished wood. Thick, dark carpet whispered under his feet, plush fibres cursed beneath his bare soles. Sherlock carried on down a new hall, this one giving away to hardwood floors and high ceilings. There was a black door at the end, and he pushed through into a different space, entering a freshly constructed wing.

It was as new and unknown as the man who had entered Sherlock’s life five short days ago.

Here, he could smell the faint scent of new paint. Here, Sherlock came to find answers.

Here, he found John.

The wing wasn’t full — it was far too new for that. The walls were the same beige-on-brown colouring of Afghanistan sand and almost bare. Each footstep over the tiled floor — a deep, depthless blue — echoed in the spacious, half-empty room. There wasn’t much to find in the space, built for expansion as it was. But Sherlock found what he sought at the far end. Memories and moments, held in place by his own will, spread over the walls. Papers and pictures littered the space, each connected by strands of red string and post-it notes.

Eyeing the wall within his mind, Sherlock pressed his fingers to his bottom lip in reality. He felt the contact as a distant thing, a click of synaptic recognition. That was outside, and Sherlock brushed the awareness aside, staring at the memories laid out before him, reminding himself of all that had passed since meeting John. He sifted through the events of the current day, starting with the conversation in the bathroom. That lead him to Mycroft’s ultimatum, the confrontation in the kitchen. And, finally, he combed through the most recent interaction.

There, stuck to the wall, was John. He was shirtless, a towel slung around his waist. Standing in the doorway to his room, he stared at the bag at his feet, placed there by Sherlock.

Sherlock combed through every second of the interaction. He started with the moment he first knocked on the door to the point where he fled back to his own room. He filed away the full discussion before shifting his focus to the minute details.

John’s face when he opened the door. His reaction when Sherlock offered the duffle.

His state of undress.

Sherlock’s thoughts abruptly veered off track. No longer parsing through each second of the interaction, his focus narrowed. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, lips popping open around a soft exhale. Pulling a breath in over a tongue that suddenly tasted like copper, Sherlock sank into the details.

During the actual encounter, he’d failed to take stock of John in his entirety. Veins rushing with adrenaline, Sherlock had noticed the fact that John wore nothing but a towel. He’d taken the knowledge like a physical blow to the skull and struggled to recover. From there, Sherlock had surged onward, making sure John knew what Sherlock’s gesture — the duffle — meant. After, he’d retreated far too quickly to linger and note the details. Now, with two closed doors and a hallway between them, Sherlock could take the time to focus on what he’d overlooked. In the moment, fixated on the expanse of bare skin before him and the water droplets caressing John’s physical topography, he’d missed the obvious.

First and foremost, Sherlock had overlooked the wicked scarring marring John’s body. Sherlock tried to be patient with himself for missing it at all and couldn’t help but sneer at his own obliviousness. He wanted to blame it on his lingering concussion, but that felt like a stretch. His head was far better than it had been.

Even if he were half-dead and going blind, Sherlock shouldn’t have missed John’s scarring. It was a lot to overlook. Combing back through the moment, Sherlock saw that now.

The damage was extensive. The scars drawn over John’s body told a tale Sherlock had previously only imagined. In the controlled, organized environment of his Mind Palace, Sherlock saw the extent of what had happened to John. He saw the starburst shape of the bullet wound on John’s left shoulder. Saw how it was puckered at the edges, the damage cutting deep where the bullet was dug out. It looked like a web, thick veins of deadened, silvery scar tissue stretching over John’s clavicle. It told the awful tale of an infection — emphasized how lucky John was to be alive. There was nothing clean about the shape of the wound, and Sherlock struggled to imagine what the other side looked like. He could tell that John had been shot straight through. He realized the bullet had probably shattered John’s collar bone, passing through his back and leaving him to bleed out in the sand.

Sherlock had expected the bullet wound. Maybe he hadn’t anticipated the sheer violence writ into the scar, but he’d known of its existence. It hadn’t been a shock to see it, just as the other marks hadn’t been a shock either. Sherlock knew John had been tortured. He’d heard as much from John’s own mouth, had seen the scars on John’s back with his own eyes. He’d read the file Mycroft left for him and still remembered the medical log detailing John’s suffering. But all that information was consumed with Sherlock removed from the visceral evidence of it. He’d caught a glimpse of John’s back in Midar, but that had been brief, and this… this had not been brief at all.

Even viewing it from the safety of his own mind, Sherlock was shaken by what he’d seen. He’d been too caught up in hungrily devouring John with his eyes — something he hadn’t anticipated — to notice the topography of his trauma.

And what a topography it was.

Sherlock didn’t have an exact mental image, distracted as he’d been in the moment, but he’d seen enough. He could recall — with the sickening clarity with which his mind remembered everything — almost every scar. Sherlock could picture the roping mark of a blade, sweeping down along John’s chest in a vague J-shape. He saw how the cut slipped toward John’s navel in an arcing curve, the skin on either side pitted with burn marks from what Sherlock could only assume was the lit ends of cigarettes. There were places where the flesh was dug into and cut away, spots where the knife had sunk deep, rending through three layers of skin and leaving an indelible mark.

There was more, much more. Sherlock thought he could spend a week attempting to catalogue the horror held in each mark and still come up short. He could, but he didn’t think he wanted to.

He emerged from his mind with a gasp and found his hands pressed against his stomach. Slowly, as he returned to the present, Sherlock realized he felt sick. The reaction wasn’t a result of what he’d seen, at least not directly. He wasn’t sickened by the sight of John — the nausea was a by-product of new understanding. Seeing John’s trauma first-hand, even healed into scars and old burn marks, was devastating.

Sherlock pressed his hands harder to his stomach and clenched his jaw. A thought arose, unbidden. If understanding John’s scars impacted Sherlock to this degree, how must John feel, carrying those marks on his skin? When he looked into the mirror, saw the echo of what had happened to him in Afghanistan, how did he stand it? Sherlock couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like, carrying so much of the past upon one’s skin. He couldn’t fathom it beyond wondering what his reaction would be if his body were the same. Though Sherlock had scars of his own — burns from experiments gone wrong, surgical scars, the long-healed ghosts of track marks along his forearms — none of them told such a tale as John’s. None of them made Sherlock want to claw his skin off and become a new person, and he couldn’t help but wonder how John stood it. How he survived with the reminder of what had nearly killed him etched into his skin.

John was a stronger man than he: Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d survive it, himself. Having seen the proof with his own eyes, Sherlock couldn’t fault John for refusing Mycroft’s offer. If working for Mycroft meant there was a chance John might again suffer such atrocities, then it was no shock that he’d chosen to forfeit his freedom instead. Sherlock didn’t blame him. As much as he hoped John would choose him, even after all that had happened, Sherlock knew he would understand if John didn’t.

If John decided to leave… Sherlock swallowed, pushing back a surge of panic at the thought. He shook his head to clear it, forcing the idea away.

If John chose to disappear instead of helping Sherlock clear his name, Sherlock wouldn’t hold it against him. Even so, some small part of Sherlock hoped John would stay. That hope wasn’t loud. It wasn’t nearly strong enough to send Sherlock across the hall again. It didn’t make him want to bang on John’s door and beg for him to stay. It was just loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to be squashed.

Sherlock squashed it at once, ignoring the small flicker of regret he felt when he did so.

He didn’t dwell on the sensation for long — an insistent buzzing pulled him out of his thoughts. Blinking his vision clear of mental images, Sherlock looked toward the sound and pursed his lips. It was the phone, the one he’d hurled across the room after he last spoke to Mycroft. Still resting on the floor across from the foot of the bed, the device jittered. It was incessant, unrelenting in its noisy assault on the quiet room until Sherlock finally rose and stalked toward it.

Bending, he grabbed the phone, lifting it to his ear without bothering to check the screen. There was only one person who would be calling him on this phone. And, as much as Sherlock didn’t want to speak with his brother, he knew he must. If only for John’s sake, he had to hear Mycroft out. If necessary, Sherlock might have to warn John if Mycroft revealed that he had another trick up his sleeve.

“What do you want?” Sherlock growled into the phone. He clutched the device in a death grip, the metal edges digging into his stiff fingers. He received a loud, annoyed sigh in response.

“You can at least be civil, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned into a hard line. “I think not,” he snapped, battling with the urge to smash the phone against the end table. “Get on with it.”

Silence followed the order, stretching out until Sherlock thought his brother would refuse to talk simply to be difficult. But then Mycroft sighed again and broke the quiet. “I wanted to inform you that I will be returning to the safe house tomorrow morning. Sometime between five and six.” A pause, then, added in a wry tone, “I thought a pre-warning might convince you not to throw me out the front door.”

“Don’t count on it,” Sherlock muttered. Turning his brother’s words over in his head, he squinted at the wall. “That’s early,” he said slowly, looking for the trick. He couldn’t see one, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Sherlock was always playing games — had done so since they were children. He’d proven, just that morning, that he wasn’t beyond doing it as an adult. “Why so early?"

Mycroft’s response was far too simple, and Sherlock’s faint suspicions clarified. “We have much to discuss. I’d like to get an early start.”

Eyes narrowed, his disquiet rising, Sherlock huffed into the phone and hung up without replying. It made his teeth grind together, not getting the last word, but the silence pressed against his ear helped ease the annoyance. Flipping the ringer to silent, he tossed the device back onto the floor and strode to the bed. Standing over the end table, he glared at the case file, set there by him after reading John’s history.

Sherlock gnawed at his bottom lip before reaching out to push the dossier onto the floor. A few papers slipped free and drifted under the bed, their perfect edges crumpling against the carpet. The sight of them, fluttering out onto the floor, placating some of Sherlock’s rising petulance.

Throwing himself across the bed, he shoved his face into the comforter and clenched his teeth. The strop he’d been aching for since earlier was demanding its space, and Sherlock gave himself over to his black mood with a fierce scowl.

* * *

John spent the rest of the day mulling over the implications of the duffle bag. Caught up in his personal conflict, he only left the room twice — once to use the washroom and then again to check the yard at five. Just as Sherlock had said, the MI6 men switched their posts promptly at five, leaving the yard clear for a total of fifteen minutes. It was a small window, but having the information confirmed helped settle John’s mind.

He did his best to sleep, napping when he could and thinking when he couldn’t. When his thoughts grew too muddled to make sense of, John stripped the two handguns to pieces, meticulously cleaning each part before slipping them back into place. They hadn’t been fired since the last time he’d cleaned them and didn’t need the care. But John still went through the motions, finding clarity and peace in the work when he couldn’t find it in his head.

Sherlock was mostly absent from John’s awareness. A few times throughout the day, John heard him moving around the house. Sometimes, John could hear Sherlock in the room, twice in the hall and trotting downstairs, then eventually back upstairs. Sherlock seemed to repeat the cycle a few times throughout the afternoon, only adding to John’s growing confusion. He couldn’t make sense of what Sherlock might be doing. He might have been eating or attending to some unknown business he’d chosen not to share, for all John knew. More than once, he considered leaving his room and confronting him but found that a deep-seated reluctance to face Sherlock kept John rooted to the bed.

Hiding out inside his room, he listened to Sherlock’s seemingly aimless puttering and waited to see if he might leave the house or knock on John’s door. Hands folded in his lap, John wondered if Sherlock might attempt to force him into a dialogue or demand that John make an immediate decision about his future.

Sherlock did neither. John remained in his room, listening to him moving about the house. It seemed that he really was letting John make his own decision. The realization was humbling and would have been far more appreciated if John could make up his mind. He was torn, frequently caught between the desire to stay and the urge to leave.

Night fell well before John made his decision.

Stretched out across the bed, he studied the ceiling. His stomach roiled with the force of his unrelenting indecision. He stayed there until the evening faded, and the sun began to set, creeping toward and below the horizon. The house fell silent. The last John had heard of Sherlock was the soft click of his door closing an hour before. He hadn’t emerged since, and the room across the hall was quiet. John closed his eyes and tried to sleep. No matter what choice he made, John knew he needed to be well-rested for whatever he might face in the morning.

His sleep was restless, filled with strange dreams. In one, he was swimming through sand as if it was water. The fine grains kept slipping through his fingers, catching in his mouth, rubbing his skin raw and red. He’d only just managed to finally push his way through when the dream faded into another, and John had found himself in an ocean. A real one, dark and deep and cold with the waves lapping at his sand-abraded skin. It was only when he felt the immense pressure on his lungs that John realized he was well below the surface. That he was sinking, sucked downward, down, down and down, water filling his lungs.

Stealing his breath. Seeping frigid ice into his veins.

He opened his mouth to scream, to breathe, to make a sound, and the water poured in. It flooded through him and pushed him deeper until everything went dark, went faded, went black.

John’s eyes snapped open at a quarter to midnight. Heart racing, sucking in desperate, hungry gasps of air, he laid there for a long moment. Staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the house and the violent thud of his pulse, John shivered. A thought rose, a memory of his dream-drowning that kept him from rolling over and going back to sleep. As if compelled by the need to make sure he was no longer underwater, John sat up.

He listened and heard nothing beyond the beat of his own heart. It was a while before he settled, sucking in lungfuls of air until everything finally slowed. Even then, he still felt strange — felt like some force other than his own will was moving him. Compelled by that mystery sensation, John swung his feet out from beneath the covers and stood. He felt a brief spell of hesitation before bending down to pull his bag from beneath the bed. With slow, controlled motions, John slipped out his Sig and tucked it against the small of his back. He pulled a frayed beige coat over his long-sleeved shirt, covering the weapon.

Leaving the bedroom with the duffle slung over his shoulder, John moved toward the stairs. He resisted the urge to look at Sherlock’s door and crept down the steps.

The microwave clock in the kitchen told him it was five to midnight. John crossed the room and slipped out through the screen door, stepped out onto a small porch. He breathed deeply, relishing the fresh air, still warm with the heat of the day. It carried the scent of blooming flowers and grass, soothing after the bleak world of the desert. John stood there for a moment, letting his pulse settle before taking in his surroundings.

There were four wooden chairs spread over the porch. John turned toward one and shoved his bag behind it before sinking into the seat. Hands steepled on his stomach, John waited. His fingers were finally still, no sign of a tremour in his left hand as he sat. Counting out the minutes in his head, John jumped when he heard the crackle of a radio from the front of the house. There was a pause, followed by the muted response of someone verbally acknowledging the message.

Ears straining, John listened for footsteps moving over the grass. He caught them, waiting until they grew faint before he stood. Moving around to the front of the house, pulled by that same unnamed sensation of being compelled, John peered around the corner and spotted the agent walking toward the front gate. John watched as the gate was dragged open and the agent stepped past, leaving it open. No one reappeared for almost three full minutes.

Appeased, John slunk back to his seat, where he settled in to wait once more. The night was quiet and still around him. It was warm, and a bead of sweat rose on his temple, trickling down the side of his neck. John wiped it away, drying his palm on his thigh. The only movement in the yard was the faintest flicker of a breeze, far too light to dry the perspiration shining on his forehead. It was both peaceful and the worst environment for waiting.

Fifteen minutes later, John heard the gate click shut and the sound of approaching footsteps. Sweat trickling down his back, shirt sticking to his ski, John checked that his bag was tucked out of sight behind the chair and slipped back into the house. He was inside before the patrols resumed. The sliding door closed silently behind him as the new agent rounded the corner of the house. From there, hidden by the dark shadows inside the kitchen, John lurked. The agent glanced at the door, eyes sliding over the porch without interest, and continued on his way. His noted indifference softened the tight lines of John’s shoulders.

The yard was empty, and John settled into one of the chairs set around the dining table. He sat facing the sliding door, veins buzzing with adrenaline. It was the middle of the night, but John didn’t feel tired. Maybe it was because of the terrifying nature of his dreams, but he was wide awake.

With one eye on the clock, John watched the night tick away. He sat and stared outside. The night washed away past him, fading until the sky began to lighten beyond the glass door. The rising sun threw long shadows and hues of blue over the yard, making John blink and sit up straighter. On the microwave, the clock changed from 4:59 am to 5:00 am.

John sucked in a breath. He took that brief pause, just the length of an exhale before he was moving. Standing, he hovered by the door, heart in his throat as he waited for an agent to pass by. One did, right on time and looking exhausted. The moment he was around the corner and the yard was clear again, John pulled the door open and slipped outside. He closed the door carefully, wary of making a noise. The frame lurched in its track with a sharp squeal, and John froze. Breath caught behind his teeth, eyes wide, John waited for someone to appear.

Several tense seconds ticked by. John’s lungs began to ache, but no one appeared.

Breathing a sigh of relief, his pulse thundering in his ears, John shut the door the rest of the way. He bent and snagged his duffle from its hiding space, looping it over his shoulder before crossing the yard at a sprint. Spurred on by a silent sense of urgency, John struggled to keep his movements smooth and unflustered. Keeping low to the ground, he crossed the yard. A loud creak announced the gate opening at the front of the house, and John was grateful for how the noise covered his escape.

Softened by the dewy morning light, the wall rose before him, standing taller than John. Made up of brick and mortar, it looked impenetrable. John clenched his jaw, pushing back the flicker of uncertainty he felt when he reached it. Sweat clinging to his neck, he dried his hands on his thighs before dragging them over the rough brickwork. His fingers roamed over the wall until they slipped into a groove. Huffing out a relieved breath, John dug into the crack, ignoring the bite of rough mortar into his skin. Blood welled in the scrape, smearing onto the brick. John kept at it, digging at the wall with his toe until he found where the brickwork was a little uneven. He toed at it, finding holds where he could.

Hooking his fingers into the mortar and brick, John scaled the wall with only a modicum of difficulty. He dropped over the other side, landing in a crouch. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his left leg, and a soft grunt escaped him, making John press his lips together to keep from cursing. Shaking the twinge off, John kept close to the wall. He relied on the shadows clinging to it for cover as John scanned the road. It was clear, the sky still semi-dark and spreading open before him. This early, the neighbourhood appeared sleepy, silent, the houses dark and quiet.

Dogged by a flicker of regret for leaving without saying goodbye to Sherlock, John rose and darted across the road. His booted feet clunked against the asphalt, a loud drumbeat to the steady rush of his breath. The duffle bag bounced against his back, and John shifted it to his side. It was heavier than usual, weighted by food and weapons and — John thought — the memories he was leaving behind.

Eyes focused on the ocean spreading out far below in the distance, John told himself not to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't yell at me, I promise all will be resolved in the next chapter! Well, some things. 👀 John will be back.


	24. Stand-Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reluctantly accepts John's desertion, and John surprises everyone - including himself.

Sherlock woke to the blare of an alarm. After letting his sulk run to its inevitable end, he’d risen from his sulk to retrieve the discarded mobile phone and set it to wake him early. Blinking the bleariness from his tired eyes, Sherlock sat up to silence the noise before slumping back against the pillows. He felt worn out, his sleep fitful and troubled, plagued by indecision. The phone — still clutched in one hand — told him it was just shy of 5:15 in the morning.

The house was quiet — silent in a way that felt final. Empty. Save for the quiet birdsong drifting in from outside the window, Sherlock heard nothing but his own breathing. The absence of sound felt heavy, pressing down on Sherlock with an almost tangible weight. With his eyes fixed on the ceiling, he listened to the slow thud of his heart. The pace slowly quickened as his waking mind began to whir.

Was it so quiet because John was no longer inside the house? There was every chance that he could have left while Sherlock slept. Lying in bed with the door closed, there was no way for Sherlock to be sure. He couldn’t pinpoint if the thick silence was that of an empty house or the kind that existed when you were the only person awake. When the rest of the world was still asleep.

He couldn’t tell, and that lack of knowing made him uneasy. In a rush, a flood of adrenaline through his body, Sherlock felt he had to know. He itched to race across the hall and confirm John’s presence — or lack thereof.

No. Fisting his hands in the sheets, Sherlock forced himself to calm. He was getting ahead of himself. There was no proof that John had left — a quiet house was evidence of nothing but silence. And silence had a multitude of causes. He needed to think like a detective, not like a hormonal teenager.

Pushing aside the creeping sense of dread rising in his chest, Sherlock slid out from beneath the covers and slipped out of bed. The thick carpet was soft underfoot, and he wiggled his toes against the fibres in a half-hearted effort to ground himself. Not quite succeeding, Sherlock let his eyes sweep toward the closed door, staring as if he could see through it and beyond, right into John’s room.

The silence was becoming painful. The house _sounded_ empty — it was a sound Sherlock knew all too well, having spent much of his life alone. Something in the air felt similar to that. It felt akin to the countless hours he’d spent with no company other than his memories.

He was getting ahead of himself again. Shaking the thoughts away, Sherlock tried to focus. It was a long moment before he found the energy to cross the room and dress. He stood and stared at the clothes set aside for him. The act of dressing with the same care he’d shown yesterday seemed impossible. Pulling on his armour when he was so on edge took Herculean effort. But Mycroft would arrive soon, and Sherlock would need every bit of help he could scrounge from his facade.

If John was truly gone, he’d need far more than that.

Trying and failing to banish his growing disquiet, Sherlock pulled on clean pants and socks with his jaw clenched. He paired charcoal trousers with a suit jacket of the same colour, layering the ensemble over a dark, claret-red dress shirt. It was dark and fitted, a colour that never failed to make him feel invincible. He buttoned the shirt with hurried hands, leaving it open at the neck and smoothing his palm along the front as he eyed himself in the mirror. The bruises on his face were slowly fading, his skin no longer looking quite as sallow from the marks of his injuries. Just as he had the day before, Sherlock thought he looked every inch the imposing, respected — perhaps feared was a better word — man he’d once been. Before everything went to Hell in a handbasket.

The predictability of his appearance settled some of the unspoken nerves twisting in his stomach. Sherlock took a moment to sweep his fingers through his sleep-mussed curls before he left the room. Hand on the doorknob, he halted in the hallway, eyes fixing on John’s bedroom door.

It was open, and the room was empty.

Sherlock stood there for a long moment, rooted in place and merely staring. It was a while before he managed to draw in a full breath, his aching lungs chiding him for the lack of oxygen. His mind cleared, the dizziness pushed back by the fresh air, and Sherlock tried to reason with his panicking mind.

An empty room didn’t necessarily mean that John was gone. He may very well be downstairs. He might be pacing or making breakfast, maybe exchanging harsh words with Mycroft.

Sherlock strained his ears, praying for the last. The house was still just as silent.

He managed to tear himself away from the spectacle of the empty bedroom, but it was a close thing. Shutting himself in the bathroom, Sherlock went about his ablutions on auto-pilot. He relieved his aching bladder, washed his face, brushed his teeth and fixed his hair yet again. Running the water longer than needed just to drown out the sound of silence hanging in the air, he scrubbed at his cheeks with a flannel until his skin was pink and raw.

When he returned to the hall, John’s bedroom was still empty. Sherlock tore his eyes away from the sight, swallowed, and descended the stairs with his heart in his throat. His mouth was dry, and his breathing came a little too quick. He braced himself for whatever he might find — or miss — on the first floor. Pausing in the hall, Sherlock took a moment to prepare for the worst before stepping around the corner.

The kitchen was empty—clean, minimal, devoid of any sign of John. The dining space, sitting room, downstairs bathroom, and every other space downstairs were all the same. Empty.

Sherlock, in a fit of desperation, thundered back upstairs. He checked the other bedrooms and the bathroom — even though he’d only shortly left it himself — and the door at the end of the hall. Standing on the balcony, looking out over the dark yard, Sherlock was forced to admit it.

The house was silent because it was empty. John was gone. He’d taken Sherlock’s choice to heart and left.

Though he couldn’t blame him, not after his realizations the day before, the abandonment still stung.

Sherlock stood on the balcony as the shadows began to stretch around him, as the sky started to lighten. Standing there, he tried to shake off the sense of betrayal he felt. Hands curled tightly around the metal railing, he told himself that he wasn’t acting rationally. This wasn’t abandonment. It was John making his decision.

Clearly, his decision didn’t include Sherlock.

But it was fine, that was just fine. John didn’t owe him anything, not anymore. He’d gone far and beyond, repaying any debt he had gained by kidnapping Sherlock. John had saved Sherlock’s life, time and again, and if the best way for Sherlock to return such salvation was to let John go, he could do that. He could.

Still, it stung. Sherlock felt the heat already beginning to prickle against his skin, the cold metal a stark contrast against his palms. Jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, Sherlock forced his grip to release. He stretched his fingers and went back into the house, shaking the disappointment and dismay away. They refused to dissipate, clinging to him like smoke over water, making every breath he took feel acrid. Walking with a tense, jerky gait, Sherlock moved down the hall and back down to the first floor. Already, he was forcing back the troublesome emotions John’s absence inspired. Sherlock’s reactions were negated and dismissed. Anything he couldn’t crush, Sherlock pushed into a small, dark room in his Mind Palace.

Out of sight, out of mind.

He slammed a metaphorical door in his head against the feelings and stormed into the kitchen. Feeling like a whirlwind, Sherlock caught and clutched the granite counter, holding on with a death grip until his knuckles went white. He needed his walls — needed to build them up stronger than before. John had worked his way past them, crossing the barriers. Even for so short a time, he’d snuck deep, and now Sherlock needed those walls back. If he wanted to stand his ground against Mycroft, he would have to be the Sherlock of before. Cold, brash, unfeeling. No longer the softened version, putting his needs on the line by giving a haunted mercenary a chance at freedom. He needed to be the Sherlock people called a psychopath and unfeeling.

 _Sandpaper_.

Sherlock forced his spine into a rigid line. His grip softened, fingers gradually uncurling from their hold until his palms rested flat on the granite countertop. The cold surface was calming, helping ground Sherlock in the present as he worked to pull up his armour. The clothing, his pristine appearance, they were only the first lines of his defences. His harsh words and cold exterior were the next layers, and internalized rhetoric was the third and final.

_Caring is not an advantage._

Mycroft’s words. Spoken to him as a child, now ingrained into his very skin, writ by time and repetition. As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, Mycroft was right. Caring _wasn’t_ an advantage, but, still, Mycroft had been the one to force Sherlock’s hand in the first place.

Now, John was gone, and it was because of them both.

As much as Sherlock was proud to be the one to give John the option to leave, he still ached at the silence. He couldn’t help but wish John had chosen differently — that John had chosen _him_. But, five short days together didn’t make them friends. It barely made them more than strangers, and Sherlock couldn’t blame John for leaving him behind the first chance he had.

But he could blame Mycroft. Sherlock would blame Mycroft, even as he used his brother for his own means. Mycroft, having cost Sherlock his best chance at regaining his old life, would have to move Heaven and Earth to get Sherlock where he needed to be. And Sherlock would make sure Mycroft never forgot his part in John leaving when Sherlock called for the debt to be filled.

With his mental state somewhat settled, Sherlock set about making tea. Not often one to partake in such mundane, domestic behaviours in his previous life, tea-making had become a soothing ritual. Once sneered at, the routine now reminded Sherlock of the life he’d left behind. It helped him recall quiet evenings, just himself and his experiments. Reminded him of sipping tea that had long gone cold after finally stumbling home from cracking some complicated case before tumbling onto the couch to sleep for days.

The sound of the coils as they hummed toward a boil made Sherlock feel simultaneously homesick and comforted. The click of mug against the counter, of spoon dropping into cup, made him ache. The simple sounds made him crave London and her smoggy, rain-heavy atmosphere like they were as vital as air. Gibraltar was part of Britain, but it was nothing like home. Here, the air was hot and heavy, sticking to Sherlock’s skin like dried sweat. He hated it. He’d travelled through so many places since tumbling to his falsified death off the roof of Saint Bart’s Hospital, and this latest stretch of hot, arid climate festered. It was like the heat had sucked the last of damp London, of his loved home, from Sherlock’s bones.

He felt like a dried-out husk of his former self. It felt like part of him had been cut out — erased. Left to shrivel and die. The longer he was away from London, the longer it took to clear his name and find his redemption, the more Sherlock struggled. He was floundering, trying to hold onto who he had been. He didn’t like who he was becoming, even as Sherlock tried to remember who he wished to be again.

Sherlock had been robbed of a life. While it hadn’t been a perfect one, it had still been his.

Hands planted on the counter in fists, listening to the kettle click its way toward a boil, Sherlock felt hollow. It was more than just recent events, more than what felt like a seemingly endless fight to regain what he’d lost. His ongoing ordeals had begun to eat away at him, stripping away who Sherlock was, piece by piece. So far, he’d managed to hold onto some part of who he’d been. But John leaving had tipped the scales. His disappearance was the final straw that broke something deep within Sherlock. It seemed he'd clung to the last of his hope for so long that even the loss of a near-stranger was enough to defeat him.

The kettle rumbled, boiled, and shut off as steam plumed from the spout. Head bowed, lips pursed, Sherlock felt bled dry. He didn’t have much left to give but no choice but to go on. He was tired. Bone-deep, weary to his core, exhausted. Steam washed over him from the kettle. It turned the air humid, warm and thick as he pulled it into his lungs with an unsteady exhale.

When did it end? _Where_ did it end?

Lifting his head, Sherlock glanced out the window over the sink. His reflection looked back at him, outside still just dark enough to hide the yard from view. Sherlock stared into his own eyes — tired, red-rimmed, faded — and wondered what he would do if he failed. What if he never reached the end? Would he keep trying or give in, forced to admit there was no future where Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, was anything more than a disgraced fraud? And, worse still, did he care? When Sherlock thought about it, got right down to brass tacks, what waited for him in London? Aside from the city itself, what did he have?

Little. Very little.

The realization struck him with a force that took his breath away. Still staring at himself in the windowpane, Sherlock saw nothing but pity. Nothing but a pitiful shadow. Nothing but — movement in the yard?

He blinked, straightening. Leaning forward, eyes narrowed, Sherlock squinted out the window. Beyond his reflection, he could see a flurry of movement from the side yard, a man running. In his hand, a gun.

Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat. Something was happening outside. The agents were reacting and, as Sherlock turned to the door, no longer locked in his mind by paralytic bitterness and self-pity, he heard it. A growing commotion, the slamming of car doors and running feet. Raised voices and commands made unintelligible by the walls separating Sherlock from outside.

Tea forgotten, his pathetic musings abandoned in favour of adrenaline, Sherlock hurried across the kitchen. He reached the front door at a jog, pausing only long enough to think of the handgun tucked into his bag. It was in his duffle, shoved into the closet of his bedroom, otherwise untouched and ignored. There was no time as the sounds outside growing louder and far more heated.

There was the crack of a gunshot, and Sherlock startled at the violent noise. Ignoring every instinct that screamed at him to run the other way, he threw the door open. He’d never achieve anything if he continued to hide. If the men who wanted him dead had found him at last, then Sherlock would face them with his shoulders back, eye-to-eye. Not as a coward who hid behind others.

He stepped outside. The voices were far louder here, Mycroft’s rising over the others. His tone was that of a command, but the words themselves failed to register as Sherlock’s eyes swept the yard. Swept the yard and landed on the epicentre of the commotion. On the agents standing with weapons drawn. On his brother, frozen with his arms raised in apparent surrender in the face of a gun.

A gun held by…

_No._

Swallowing, his voice gone rough with surprise, Sherlock rasped, “John?”

* * *

John made it across the street and onto the next block when he saw the car. A long black sedan, impossible for John to forget. It slid out of the dark, just as it had done when it cut off his escape at the ferry terminal.

Hugging the shadows, John ducked behind a privacy hedge bordering a yard set against the road. He glanced at the house, saw it was dark, the curtains drawn over the front window. A relieved breath rushed out through his teeth. Taking advantage of the hiding place, John peered out at the rood. He watched the car pass, nearly silent but for the sleek purr of its high-performance engine. The neighbourhood was clearly upper class, and the car didn’t look out of place among the large houses and double garages. Still, to John, it stuck out like a sore thumb, only because he knew who rode behind the tinted windows. Given that the shift change had already occurred for the agents at the safe house, the car must be on the way to pick up Mycroft. Which meant he would return soon, settled in the back seat, no doubt on his way to terrorize Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Just thinking the name sent a pulse of guilt through John’s body. The sensation settled firmly, deep in his stomach, twisting it into knots. With it came an unexpected wave of nausea, and John closed his eyes against it. He breathed deeply, trying to settle the roiling of his insides, gasping when it finally passed.

But the guilt lingered. The car, passing by while John’s eyes were closed, turned left, moving away from the street he was on. John sat and watched until the red of the taillights faded, absorbed in the brightening haze of the neighbourhood. The sun was rising, peeking over the horizon. The dark of night was fast coming to an end, and John needed to get moving if he had any hope of slipping out of the area before he was missed.

With Mycroft soon to be on his way to the safe house, it wouldn’t be long before John’s absence was noticed, and he’d lose all chance at a headstart.

Slipping the strap of his duffle over his head, slinging it across his back, John stood up from his hiding space. The road was clear, the houses dark and silent with the early hour. The heat was beginning to rise with the sun, warmth prickling over John’s skin and drawing a sheen of sweat over his nape. John brushed it away and slipped out of the privacy hedge. He took a moment to straighten his clothes, plucking a bit of bush from his sleeve. John stared at the small twig, twirling it between his fingers, reminded of Midar. He remembered pulling a similar piece of tree from Sherlock’s hair after he’d changed into new clothing behind the bushes.

Sherlock.

_I need you. I can’t do it alone._

The words flashed through John’s mind. He frowned, staring at the twig until he could bring himself to toss it onto the ground. Sherlock had said he needed John, but the reasons why had been selfish and self-centred. Self-serving.

_All I want is my life back. To clear my name and regain what I lost. And you’re the one who can help me do that._

Sherlock only needed John as a means to his own ends. He’d been ignorant enough to offer John his redemption — something John had long since given up. No matter how he’d flip-flopped on the possibility over the past five days since meeting Sherlock, it wasn’t an achievable result.

_Not just my redemption, John. Yours, too_

The guilt twisted in John’s stomach again, heavy and burning. Hands clenched at his sides, John shook his head. The only reason he’d agreed to even consider helping Sherlock, to give him a second chance, was because Sherlock had offered John his freedom. John had that now, had it without that tenet. He didn’t need to give Sherlock another chance, not now that John was free to go where he pleased. John was untethered now, unfettered by further responsibility to a man he barely knew. He could call the shots, now. Didn’t need to look after anyone but himself.

John was free. Free to go where he wanted, do what he wanted, become who he wanted.

He began to walk, letting his restless thoughts unspool in his head as he went. He kept one eye out for the black car and anyone else who might stop him. For now, it seemed he had the road to himself, as untethered as the birds flitting from tree to tree in a yard on his left.

If he stopped to think about it, John knew he would see that he wasn’t entirely free. There was still the matter of his ex-employers and Mycroft’s potential pursuit. John would have to stay alert — he’d be forced to look over his shoulder, ever wary. Sherlock wouldn’t be there to spring him this time, should he end up caught once more. But John was confident that he could avoid both Mycroft and the Colonel. John knew he could outsmart and outrun them with ease. He’d been doing it for years, and maybe he’d had help before, but that didn’t mean John needed it. He hadn’t needed help for a long time — didn’t _need_ anyone. He could make it on his own. Now that he was the one making the decisions, choosing the next steps, John didn’t have to worry about risking anyone. Didn’t have to second-guess if he was doing the right thing. He was free. He was…

Alone.

John’s feet stuttered over the asphalt. Small rocks, set loose by his boots, skittered away. Drawing to a sudden halt on the side of the road, John blinked, stunned by his own realization. Eyes fixed on the far-off horizon, he watched the sun paint shimmering yellow flashes over the distant ocean. The sight was breathtaking, rooting John in place as the implications of his thoughts sank in.

He was free to go his own way, free to call the shots and move through the world as he wanted, but that meant doing it alone. It meant having no one to watch his back and John looking out for no one in return. It meant going without. After years spent doing just that, John stood and stared at the distant ocean, slowly realizing he didn’t want that. Not anymore. Once, he’d believed his isolation — his withdrawal from people and the world at large — to be safest. But now, watching the sun reflect off the water and dazzle his eyes even from this distance, John realized it wasn’t. The past five days, wild as they’d been, had shown him something — something John had tried to ignore. He’d snatched a glimpse into a different existence.

No longer alone. Stronger, allied, with someone at his side. Someone who looked out for him, just as John looked out for them. For him.

Dammit, but Sherlock Holmes had changed him. In less than a week, he’d stumbled into John’s life — at John’s own hands, no less — and shaken John to his core. Sherlock had shown John that he didn’t have to stay alone, that he could rely on someone and trust them to have his back. Though they’d had a shaky start, and Sherlock hadn’t done well to endear himself to John with the stunt he’d pulled at the ferry terminal, he’d changed things. Sherlock had gone from trying to force John into staying, to handing him his freedom, even if it meant Sherlock was left without.

He’d proven himself to John. And, in doing so, had shown John what it might be like to have an ally. A friend? A… something.

“Bloody hell,” John breathed. He was still staring at the ocean, and he forced his eyes shut, his brow furrowed. Lifting a hand, John rubbed an absent palm over his jaw. Skin rasped against the growth covering his lower face, now far closer to a beard than stubble, and tried to make sense of his thoughts.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go back to the way he’d lived before. Not only because John no longer had an employer, but because the idea no longer appealed. It would be returning to a half-life. Now that John had tasted a different reality, it was that much harder to let it go. That morning, John left the safe house thinking he’d known what he wanted; thought he’d wanted nothing more than his freedom. But now, standing on the side of the road in some upscale neighbourhood in Gibraltar, John saw that what he wanted had nothing to do with being free. He wanted to change. He wanted things to be _different_.

John didn’t want to be alone anymore.

He could do it. John knew that he could, knew he would survive if necessary. He could slip away, disappear from everyone who wanted to track him down and grind him into dust. But at what cost? For what outcome? Just so he could live his life, lonely, alone, always looking over his shoulder? Was that freedom? Or was it just a new kind of prison?

With his eyes still fixed on the sea, John thought it might be.

Reaching back, John pressed a hand against the gun, sitting snug against his lower back. The contact was grounding, and he felt the cold, sleek metal on his skin even through the soft fabric of his shirt. The chill helped ground him, holding John firmly in the present. Finally, he managed to tear his eyes away from the ocean, and he turned to study the road. He saw the refraction of sunlight off something dark and sleek: a black sedan at the far end.

John spun to the side, darting for cover before the vehicle crested a small rise. Hunched against a tree, John watched the car approach. He was sure he’d been spotted. As the sedan neared, he saw it was the same one as before. Breath caught in his chest, lungs aching, John waited. He kept one hand on the gun at his back, waiting, muscles tensed and ready for immediate action. But the car continued past. It didn’t slow, passing his hiding spot without incident. Sidling along the rough bark of the tree trunk, John tilted his head around the side to watch it go. It turned onto the street where the safe house resided, and John breathed out a long, loud breath once it was out of sight.

He wasn’t calm for long. Mind made up, knowing it was only a matter of time before the car disappeared behind the gate, John rocked forward, into action. He shifted around the tree, running at a fast crouch across the road. Using the cover of landscaping and other houses as the sun blazed at his back, John darted through yards. He stayed parallel to the road. Followed the car, keeping his distance and staying out of sight until it reached the driveway of the safe house.

John shot into the yard of the house next door, hugging the wall bordering the two properties. He paused, back pressed to the unyielding bricks, and listened. There was the sound of a car door opening and closing, the creak of the gate as it began to push open.

Heart in his throat, John launched himself at the wall. He climbed, hand over foot, with the rough mortar scraping his fingertips raw until he was up and over. It was far too easy, and he bristled at the sheer ease with which he breached the yard. There would have to be a serious discussion about proper perimeter security later, once things settled. But first, John had to get his point across on a different topic.

Body braced for impact, John hit the grass on the other side of the wall, absorbing the jolt with crouched legs. His knee, the one tweaked when he’d been caught at the ferry terminal, twinged. John ignored it. The adrenaline washing through his veins helped, pushing him upward to standing. He dug into his duffle for the second gun, sliding out the clip to check it was loaded before dropping the bag onto the grass. Then he was off, sticking close to the wall as he made his way across the yard. John hugged the bricks, ignored where the rough edges snagged on his jacket and sidled closer.

The gate was open, the long, dark car gliding up the driveway. Two agents moved forward to meet the vehicle, a third dealing with the gate. That meant at least one more in the car, possibly more. And Mycroft himself.

John ducked behind one of the trees casting shade over the yard. It put him between the car and the front door, and he sunk down to wait. Teeth clenched and lips pursed to keep his breathing quiet, John watched, unblinking, while the sound of the car’s engine died off. He narrowed his eyes as the front doors opened, and two men emerged. Armed, all in black with earpieces, they put the odds at five to one — six, if John counted Mycroft. He didn’t, not really, since he’d yet to see Mycroft armed. But John couldn’t count him out entirely, so he called it an even six.

He’d faced worse.

The back door swung open, and Mycroft emerged from the car. Another agent followed on his heels, and John adjusted his odds. Seven — six at a stretch — was doable. If it came to it, John could handle seven. Maybe not well enough to walk out of the skirmish unharmed, but he could hold his own for a time.

Mycroft moved toward the house, the scuff of his expensive dress shoes drawing John’s attention. Sucking in a breath, letting the heady mixture of oxygen and adrenaline sharpen his thoughts into perfect clarity, John stepped out from his hiding spot. He lifted the gun, his other hand resting on the weapon at his back. The firearm in his grip was the Glock. Not his favourite, but it held more rounds, and the laser sight might provide the edge John needed to keep the upper hand. The Sig, resting against the small of his back, was comfort. It was his Hail Mary, an extension of John himself that wouldn’t fail him.

John cleared his throat. Catching the sound, Mycroft turned away from the men at his back. His eyes settled on John, and his expression flickered briefly with surprise before his face went blank. Everyone froze. John, standing between Mycroft and the front door, had him in his gunsights.

Two of the agents immediately behind Mycroft, momentarily taken-aback, seemed to shake themselves free of their shock. One of them moved, his hand sliding toward the gun on his hip, and John shook his head. He flicked a thumb, and the laser sight on the Glock blinked on.

The red point lit up a small, vivid spot on Mycroft’s chest, just over his heart.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” John said to the man reaching for his gun.

The agent went still, eyes narrowed. His hand dropped, but his gaze shifted to a point just over John’s shoulder. The gesture gave away the game, and John rolled his eyes. _Amateurs,_ he thought with disdain. It was no small wonder that John had gained the yard with such ease.

Quick as a blink and fearless, John pulled the Sig from beneath his jacket. He shifted on his heels, turning parallel to the front door, and pointed the Sig at the man at his back. The agent didn’t even have his gun out; he was just reaching for it when John fired a shot. The report was loud, shattering the early morning silence.

The bullet slammed into the soft ground at the agent’s feet, and the man’s hands leapt up into the air.

“Bloody hell,” John snapped, shooting Mycroft a disgusted look, “where did you _find_ these morons?”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched. It was small, barely perceptible, reminding John of the expression Sherlock made before he smiled. But Mycroft didn’t smile, just schooled his facade into a mask and regarded John solemnly. “Do not shoot Captain Watson,” he barked at the men surrounding them, guns drawn. He stared at John, his voice dropping, “I wasn’t aware that your effects had been returned to you, Captain.” His eyes shifted, pinning the man behind John with a hard stare. “That will need to be remedied.”

Grip tightening on the Glock, John bared his teeth in a sharp grin. “Go ahead,” he said, voice soft, just loud enough for Mycroft to hear. “Come and take them from me.”

Mycroft was silent, staring at him with his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t reply, but the man with his hands in the air moved. John eyed him, wary, and realized the agent wasn’t looking at him. He was looking past John, toward the front door. Through the sound of his own rushing blood, John heard it open and stiffened.

 _Oh, god,_ he thought, his heart leaping into his throat, _what if there was another agent?_ If he’d missed another agent, he was done. Finished. There was only so much John could do when he was fending off hostiles from every direction. He braced himself, muscles tensing in preparation. But no one tried to take him down. There was no click of a gun being levelled at his head, and none of the other agents rushed forward to catch him off guard. Instead, there was a voice, lilting upward and making a single word into a question.

“John?”


	25. A United Front

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> United at last, John and Sherlock try to find common ground as Mycroft's motives are revealed.

Sherlock’s brain ground to a screeching halt at the sight of John. He stared long enough that his eyes began to burn, and then he stared some more. Slowly, finding his voice and his wits around the same time, Sherlock swallowed and repeated, “John?” He immediately pulled a face — he’d already _said_ that. And it was clearly John, standing in the yard with a gun in each hand. Anyone could see that.

John stood with his back to Sherlock, looking over his shoulder, eyes darting warily between the two men he had pinned down with his weapons. One was Laurie.

The other was Mycroft.

Lips twitching with an inappropriate appreciation for the scene before him, Sherlock cleared his throat and forced his brain to cooperate. Slowly, his shock ebbed, freeing his stuck tongue. “What’s going on?” Sherlock didn’t expect a reply, not with everyone locked into a standoff the way they were, but he received one.

Still looking back at him over his shoulder, John’s mouth quirked. “Can’t you deduce it?” The words sounded like they should be harsh, but there was a playfulness there that Sherlock relished. A challenge. John was fired up and fierce, standing tall, proud and dangerous. He stared hard at Sherlock and turned his focus upon the task at hand.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John’s back. Oh, he certainly could ‘deduce it.’

John’s shoulders were rigid but level, his muscles tight with coiled, controlled vigour. His taut body spoke of adrenaline and excitement, every inch of him ready for action and holding back.

To Sherlock, he was _radiant_.

“You came back,” Sherlock surmised, two steps behind and struggling to catch up. He saw the edge of John’s cheek twitch upward into a small smirk.

“Well done,” John said with his eyes still fixed on Mycroft. “Knew you’d figure it out.” A short hush followed his words. It was fraught with intensity, the yard almost silent as everyone seemed to hold their breath in anticipation.

Sherlock broke the quiet first. “Why?”

John’s back tensed, his shoulder blades drawing inward in a brief but perceptible flinch. His stance faltered, the guns lowering just a split second before rising again. Some of the tension sparking through John’s muscles dissipated. John’s voice was steady when he asked, “No secrets?”

Turning the words over in his head, Sherlock blinked, trying to make sense of the question. His eyes darted over each of the armed men. They stood in a loose semi-circle, hands on their guns, watching John as John watched them back. Head turned slightly toward Sherlock, gaze still locked on Mycroft, John glanced at Sherlock from his peripherals. “Full honesty, yeah?” he asked. His tongue darted out, sweeping over his bottom lip and drawing Sherlock’s attention. “That’s what you said, right? You and me… no more secrets?”

Sherlock startled, finally catching on. Remembering their discussion in the bathroom the day before, Sherlock sucked in a surprised breath. Something like hope flickered in his chest as he realized John was asking him to reaffirm his vow. Sherlock had promised total honesty in exchange for John’s loyalty. When John left, Sherlock had, incorrectly, believed that agreement void.

It appeared that John planned to hold Sherlock to his word.

Mouth suddenly dry, Sherlock swallowed and nodded. Realizing John wasn’t looking at him anymore, he forced the words out in a croak, “Yes.” He coughed, voice strengthening as he added, “Full honesty. No more secrets.”

John tipped his head in a small nod, eyes still on Mycroft and the armed agents. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.” It sounded a little like a warning.

Sherlock, with heat flooding through his body, released a shuddering sigh. He knew he should take that warning to heart. If honesty meant he could have John at his side, could keep him, then Sherlock would do whatever he must. It wasn’t in his nature, this kind of honesty. But, if John could ignore his own instincts and change enough to come back to him, then Sherlock would make whatever effort was necessary to do the same. “I know you will.”

“Good,” came the hard reply from John’s tight lips. Sherlock thought he saw John’s mouth twitch again, but then it faded, and John was all business. He was fierce and poised, thumbing back the hammer on each gun in warning when one of the agents shifted his feet in the grass. “Don’t move,” he snapped, his upper body a powerful line from fingertip to fingertip.

“Do as he says,” Mycroft ordered, flicking his hands at the men. “And stand down. I don’t relish the thought of having to explain away a shootout in the front yard of a government-owned safe house.” The men hesitated, and Mycroft’s expression hardened. “I said, _stand down.”_

One by one, slowly and with obvious reluctance, the agents lowered their weapons. They holstered their guns and stepped away, eyeing the Holmes brothers and John with evident disquiet.

John, still without dropping his guns, looked hard at Mycroft. “I’d like to discuss my terms.”

“Terms?” Mycroft repeated with a calculating expression.

Already halfway down the stairs, Sherlock heard John’s answer clearly, the space between them disappearing as he stepped closer.

“I think you heard me just fine,” John replied in a clipped tone. Both his fierce eyes and weapons were unwavering. He struck an imposing figure, and Sherlock marvelled at his confidence. “I’d like to accept your offer. But…” John’s gaze flickered to Sherlock as Sherlock moved into view. His lips pressed into a hard line, John said, “I have conditions.”

Glancing toward his brother, Sherlock caught a flash of something in his face. Mycroft almost looked pleased, but the expression was there and gone before Sherlock could be certain of it.

“Of course, Captain Watson.” Mycroft made to step forward and paused. His eyebrows rose, gaze settling on the weapon in John’s hand. “Perhaps we can dispense with the guns? I believe you’ve made your point.”

John didn’t move right away. His expression was alert, eyes sweeping over Mycroft and the men who had lowered their weapons. Shooting a suspicious glance at Laurie, still standing at his back, John scowled. “Tell your men to clear off, and we have a deal.”

Mycroft inclined his head in a curt nod. “Certainly.” He looked to the men spread out in the yard with a stern expression. “You heard him. Disperse.” His eyes hardened. “Move the car and close the gate. Do your jobs. _Properly,_ this time.”

An air of distrustful reluctance met his orders, but the agents did as told, grudgingly returning to their posts. It was clear, from the looks on their faces, that none of them thought Mycroft was making the right call. But they were civil servants to the bone, trained to obey without question. Two men slipped into the black sedan and began to back it down the driveway. Another closed the gate, and Laurie stomped off around the side of the house. The others faded into the yard.

After a moment, Mycroft and Sherlock were left alone with John. Only then, when it was just the three of them, did John lower his guns. He flipped the safety on the Glock and tucked it away from view. But the Sig remained in his hand, deadly and visibly present.

Sherlock stared at it, noting how John held the gun like it was an extension of his own arm. He felt a thrill work its way through him, building into a slow, lingering shiver. Something about seeing John there with his gun in hand, his expression fiercely determined, felt proper.

It felt _right_.

“I need to get my bag,” John said. He gestured across the yard, pulling Sherlock’s focus to the brick wall encircling the property. Sherlock frowned, spotting the duffle sitting in the grass, just beyond the base of the wall.

“You,” he began, only to stop, forced to swallow as his throat tightened in surprise, “you climbed the wall?”

Instead of replying, John looked at him, long and silent. Sherlock stared back. Mycroft made a noise of disgust — no doubt thinking about the security breach — and Sherlock turned on him. “Wait for us inside,” he ordered, voice snapping out, rough and harsh.

Eyes narrowing, Mycroft appeared taken-aback by the command. “Sherlock—”

Sherlock didn’t let him finish, interrupting with a growl, “Go _inside,_ Mycroft.” He glanced at John, saw him watching with a raised eyebrow, and looked back at his brother. “I need to speak with John.” Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, and Sherlock added, _“Alone.”_ He expected more of a fight, but Mycroft surprised him by backing down. His brother simply nodded and closed his mouth before heading into the house without further comment.

Somewhat caught off guard by the unexpected surrender, it was a moment before Sherlock turned to John again. He did so a little unsteadily, struck by the way John was watching him. He looked wary, and… was that admiration? Surely, Sherlock was seeing things. Shaking away his wistful thoughts, Sherlock cleared his throat. “Shall we?” he said, waving toward the far side of the yard.

John, still without speaking, nodded.

They fell into step, crossing the yard in silence. Sherlock, eyebrows snapping together with the force of his consternation, stared at his feet. John had left. That was a fact. He’d done so early in the day, gone before Sherlock even woke. He’d taken the chance for freedom and ran with it, only to turn around and come back. It was baffling, and Sherlock couldn’t make sense of it. His foundations felt unsteady, his confidence shaken by John’s return. “You came back,” he said, only just managing to give voice to the tumultuous thoughts racing through his mind.

John’s reply was simple. “Yes,” he replied. Nothing more, as if the affirmation explained everything.

They both lapsed into silence again. It was enough to drive Sherlock mad. He waited until John stopped in front of the bag to speak again. Before John bent down to retrieve it, Sherlock reached out. His fingers brushed John’s right shoulder, making him stiffen. But he relaxed almost as quickly, turning around to face Sherlock with an expectant expression on his face.

Sherlock’s brush became a grip, his hand cupping the curve of John’s upper arm. “Why?” Looking closely at John, Sherlock added, “Why did you come back?” He half expected John to pull away. Maybe shrug the grip off and turn aside to keep Sherlock from reading his face.

But he didn’t. John simply stood and held Sherlock’s gaze, steadfast beneath his scrutiny. Chin tilted upward just enough to harden the shape of his jaw, John didn’t turn away. His throat bobbed around a slow swallow, drawing Sherlock’s attention until he forced it back to John’s eyes. Dark and unblinking, they held Sherlock’s gaze. “Because you said you needed my help.” John’s voice was firm but flat, turning the response into an irrefutable statement.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. Rooted in place, his mind went blank.

With their gazes locked, Sherlock hanging on John’s words, John said, “I’ve been alone for much of my life, Sherlock.” His expression was intense, his words soft yet fierce. “One way or another, I’ve been on my own. I thought that was safer — I thought it was better that way. But…” Here, John’s eyes slid away. It was only a brief break in contact, his gaze darting back to Sherlock’s face seconds later. “Now, I’m not so sure.” Taking a deep breath, John spoke as if admitting some fearful sin, “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

The quiet declaration momentarily stunned Sherlock, leaving him scrambling for a response. His hands twitched, fingers clenching in an unconscious gesture, reaching for the words. He grasped John’s shoulder a little tighter before forcing himself to soften his hold. The clinging grip eased, Sherlock’s palm brushing over John’s bicep until he caught his forearm and held fast. “John,” he murmured and paused, not sure what else to say. Then again, Sherlock felt he never knew what to say. Sandpaper, always, even when Sherlock wanted to be someone else. Someone softer, less awkward. Someone who knew the right words. His mind was a mess, Mind Palace ringing with John’s announcement: _I don’t want to be alone anymore._ “I don’t…” Sherlock coughed, clearing his throat with a flush rising into his face. “I don’t know what to say,” he finished pathetically.

A tiny twitch shifted the edge of John’s lips. It wasn’t a smile, not quite, just the hint of one.

The sight of it was a small relief.

“That’s okay, Sherlock,” John said with a roughness to his voice that Sherlock couldn’t quite pinpoint the cause of. “I just want you to know that I didn’t make my choice lightly. And… I’m not going to change my mind.” John stood a little straighter, his shoulders pushed back. “I’m not going to leave again. Not unless…” He looked away, brows drawing in and down as something brief and vulnerable crossed his face. Looking back to Sherlock, throat bobbing in a swallow, John added, “Not unless it’s both of us. Together.”

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered with surprise. John’s statement, the confident tone in which he delivered the vow, stole the breath from his lungs. His mind went blank again, leaving Sherlock with nothing but the knowledge that John had turned back for him. Not only because Sherlock had asked for his help, but because John didn’t want to be alone anymore. John had willingly chosen Sherlock. Just as Sherlock had gone against his own brother and chosen John, here was the same gesture, reciprocated.

His mouth gone dry, Sherlock stayed silent for what he felt must surely have been far too long. It felt like ages before he was able to speak again. But John didn’t press him for a response. He didn’t leave, didn’t move. John simply stood before him, letting Sherlock grip his arm and staring at Sherlock as if waiting for something.

 _Waiting for what?_ Sherlock wondered, feeling like he was caught on the edge of mania. He seemed to be waiting as well, the silence beginning to make him twitch. With his mind still whirling, reeling, Sherlock managed a quiet, strained, “Thank you.”

John pulled in a breath. It was loud and almost desperate, as if he’d been holding it until Sherlock spoke. The sound of it was audible, making Sherlock’s inhale stutter in his chest. Before he could recover, John’s eyes dropped. They settled on Sherlock’s lips, still parted around a sigh, and there they fixated.

Sherlock’s own breath wheezed out of him, and shock rippled through his body like an electric current. He blinked slowly, gaze darting over John’s face, tracking his eyes. He waited for John to shake him off and step away, but the moment never came. His fingers were still curled around John’s forearm, and Sherlock took a chance. Wetting his lips, watching John watch him back, Sherlock slid his hand a bit lower, gripping tight. Just a little, just enough to feel John’s heartbeat beneath the soft material of his long-sleeved shirt.

The pulse under his fingertips was racing, and everything slowed, dragging down to seconds at the realization.

John’s tongue darted out, tracing the curve of his bottom lip with an almost absent sweep. The movement was magnetic, tugging Sherlock’s eyes downward. He breathed in, pulling fresh oxygen into his aching lungs. Slowly, every second stretched out by his painful hesitance, Sherlock leaned closer. His gaze flicked upward, catching the minute widening of John’s eyes before they softened, darkened, narrowed.

John parted his lips, his breath quickening, rushing into the space between them. One booted foot slid in the grass as he took a small step forward. They were close, so close, now even closer, a thunderstorm charge building in the scant inches separating their bodies.

Sherlock let his eyes drift shut. His mind was racing, but everything else had slowed to a crawl. He was taking in information at an alarming rate. The silver brush of a breeze rustling the curls at his nape. The smell of hot pavement and green grass. The feeling of John’s shaky exhale, warm and humid against his cheek. With his heart in his throat, Sherlock swallowed and opened himself to what was happening between them.

A scuffing noise, followed by the skitter of loose rocks skidding over concrete, made him start. His eyes flashed open, saw John stiffen as they both shuddered apart. A mixed look of confusion and disappointment flitted over John’s face before he stepped back. His arm slid easily out of Sherlock’s grasp, Sherlock’s fingers loosened by surprise at the interruption.

Dazed, his mind struggling to catch up, Sherlock glanced toward the origin of the noise. He saw one of the agents crossing the driveway on his rounds. Blinking, Sherlock glared at his retreating form and forced his shattered focus back to John.

John was facing away from him, bending to pick his duffle up off the ground. He straightened before turning around, shoulders falling back. John’s expression was blank, his face closed off. Sherlock felt a surge of disappointment until he looked closer and saw there was something in John’s eyes.

Dark and intense, it fanned a small flicker of hope Sherlock felt gutter to life deep in his chest.

He breathed a soft sigh of relief and pushed the dwindling disappointment aside. John wasn’t going anywhere. He’d said as much, and Sherlock had no doubt in his mind that John meant to keep his word. They had time.

The sound of Sherlock’s exhale seemed to release some of the tension in John’s body. The severe line of his stiff shoulders softened, and, clearing his throat, John offered a tentative smile. “Shall we?” he asked, shrugging his duffle higher and gesturing to the house.

That dark, intent edge to his gaze remained. Sherlock, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from John’s, nodded. They fell into step once more, crossing the yard together.

This time, they were a united front.

* * *

John followed Sherlock into the safe house, feeling a little scattered, his mind whirling. Focused as he’d been on staying alive out in the yard, he hadn’t stopped to think about what he’d say to Sherlock about his leaving. They’d come face to face before John had a chance to work out his explanation. Caught off guard by Sherlock’s intensity, by Sherlock gripping his arm and staring into his eyes, John had blurted the first thing that came to his mind. But it had been the truth. Even as the words had spilled from his mouth, they’d brought with them a sweet sense of relief. Of finality, as John finally admitted what he wanted — what he _needed_ — to Sherlock.

In the wake of John’s confession, Sherlock had turned into a statue. He’d stood, staring at John, his expression uncertain, no doubt struggling to find the right words. At that moment, Sherlock had seemed so unlike the confident, manipulative man John had first encountered five days ago in Morocco. The more John thought about it, looking back over their interactions since reaching the safe house, the more he saw that man was nothing more than an act. A convincing act, yes, but still an act. The cold, unfeeling, harsh man Sherlock presented to the world was a facade. This man, the one struggling for words, caught off guard by John’s raw words, was the real Sherlock. The man beneath the mask was like night and day. Softer. Uncertain, shaken to his core by John’s actions.

Ultimately, Sherlock chose to thank John. His gratitude had sounded genuine, Sherlock’s eyes burning fierce and earnest in his fervent face. He’d appeared almost touched by John’s return, albeit uncertain about the motivations behind the gesture.

John hadn’t been able to help himself. Sherlock’s fingers, brushing over the pulse point in John’s wrist, had felt like a bolt out of the blue. John had felt the soft press of seeking fingertips on his skin and known Sherlock was taking his pulse. It was a strange gesture, and John had reacted. Mind fixated on the touch, John’s body had forced his eyes downward, onto Sherlock’s pale lips. And Sherlock had noticed, of that much John was sure. Even overwhelmed, Sherlock saw far more than most, and he hadn’t missed John’s sudden shift in attention. There, with fingers on pulse and eyes on lips, they’d both gone still. John had felt a pull, almost magnetic in its force. Sherlock seemed to feel it too, swaying forward with hesitation evident in his face.

Then, the interruption.

Staring at Sherlock’s back as he led the way inside the safe house, John wondered what might have happened. If the MI6 agent hadn’t appeared, shattering the moment, would John have done what he wanted? He knew what he’d wanted to do. He’d wanted — no, _ached_ — to lean forward. To close that distance and find out if Sherlock’s lips tasted as delicious as they looked. But would John have done it? Would he have erased that space between their bodies, gripping Sherlock’s shoulders and seeking out Sherlock’s mouth with his own?

Eyes fixed on the tight lines of Sherlock’s shoulders, John thought he might have. Closing the door behind them, John knew he’d wanted to. And he thought Sherlock might have wanted it, too. John sure did. He _still_ wanted to. If they hadn’t been interrupted, if Mycroft wasn't waiting impatiently for them inside, John could easily imagine where things might have gone from there. From that first kiss to the hungry second, the gasping third and onward from there. Maybe Sherlock would take over, gripping John’s nape and crowding him against the brick wall with their tongues sliding together. He might have let John take the lead, and they’d stumble back to the house, locked together and reluctant to separate.

His breathing came a little faster, and John shook his head. He pushed the thoughts — the _fantasies_ — away.

There was no guarantee Sherlock would have welcomed John’s advances. John thought he might, but had no way of knowing for sure. John didn’t doubt the hungry look he’d seen the day prior. He didn’t believe he’d imagined how Sherlock looked at him when John stood in the bedroom doorway in nothing but a towel. Ravenous. Wanting. But admiration didn’t necessarily mean there was an attraction. Just because Sherlock admired John’s physical form, that didn’t mean he wanted John himself. They’d both been alone for a long time. It was no small stretch to imagine that Sherlock might be as lonely as John. That didn’t mean their loneliness was the same.

It didn’t mean Sherlock would return John’s growing feelings. And those feelings _were_ growing. What had started out as an idle admiration in John, a flickering hint at a possible physical attraction, had shifted. Deepened. John knew himself well enough to know when he was aching for something purely sexual, and this wasn’t that. He knew part of it was his not wanting to be alone anymore, but now, even with that need satiated, John still wanted more.

He wanted Sherlock.

They entered the sitting room, and John caught Sherlock’s eye. Instead of turning away, Sherlock halted and looked back. Their gazes met, held, crackled. It was barely a flicker of connection, but John thought he saw something in Sherlock’s stare. Something incendiary, explosive and just waiting for the spark that would light the tinder.

Sherlock stepped deeper into the room, and the flicker died like a guttering flame. John pushed back the hollow sensation rising in his stomach. Mycroft’s voice caught his attention, forcing John’s focus back to his surroundings.

“So gracious of you both to finally join me.” Seated on a white suede sofa set before the large picture window on the far end of the sitting room, Mycroft eyed them with a single raised eyebrow. “I trust that all is sorted?”

John felt Sherlock watching him, no doubt gauging John’s response. His gaze was like a laser, cutting into John. Working to control his expression with his eyes kept carefully on Mycroft, John slid a finger along the edge of the gun still clutched in one hand. “I don’t know,” he drawled, chin lifting slowly. “You tell me.”

Mycroft sighed, the sound communicating his growing irritation. Eyeing him with a flicker of frustration, John wondered if the man had a setting other than ‘falsely polite annoyance.’

“No, Captain Watson,” Mycroft said, his eyes hard, “I believe you are the one calling the shots here.” Leaning back in the chair with his legs crossed primly at the knee, Mycroft laced his hands together over his stomach. “Your earlier display, in the front yard of government-owned property, no less, was difficult to ignore. Clearly, you have demands.” Mycroft rolled his shoulders in a stretch before fixing John with an appraising look. “You have my attention. I hope you know what to do with it.”

John wet his lips, carefully considering Mycroft’s remarks. He gathered his words, feeling the Sig as a comforting weight in his fingers.

But before he could speak, Sherlock released a long, annoyed sigh of his own. “And you say _I’m_ the dramatic one,” he muttered. Casting John a curious glance, Sherlock squinted and returned to scowling at his brother. “Are you planning to be this insufferable the _entire_ day? If so, kindly get on with it. I’m already bored of you.” Without waiting for a response, Sherlock threw himself over a matching loveseat. His sprawl was absolute, his long limbs taking up the entire piece of furniture.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said through a broad, fake smile, “do please, for once, _shut up.”_

Sherlock huffed at the command but subsided. Folding his arms beneath his head, he turned his attention to John. There was something speculative in his gaze. Speculative and expectant.

Caught by that evaluating look, John forced back the urge to fidget. His throat bobbed in a nervous swallow. Faced with the formidable attention of both Holmes brothers, John had the brief, insane thought that he almost preferred taking on the entire MI6 squad outside to this. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he eyed the last remaining seat. It was a plush armchair that looked like it might suck him deep into its depths if John dared to sit on it. Deciding to stand instead, he lifted his chin again and met the gazes fixed upon him.

It was a little unnerving, standing there with two almost identical stares — one icy blue, the other slate grey — cutting into him like knives. Pushing his shoulders back and straightening his spine, John did his best not to bow beneath the scrutiny. “I’m staying,” he said, pausing when Sherlock made a small, indecipherable sound. John glanced at him, but Sherlock’s expression was as impossible to make sense of, just like the noise itself. Looking at Mycroft again, John frowned. “But I have some conditions of my own.”

Mycroft tipped his head in a small nod. “So you said.” Still reclined against the back of the sofa, he favoured John with anticipatory focus. “I am willing to hear them.”

Tongue flicking out over this bottom lip, John worked to keep his surprise from showing on his face. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat when his voice emerged sounding ragged. “Of course.” John dropped his eyes to the floor, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

He was all too aware of Sherlock’s presence to his left. It felt heavy, weighing on him with forceful expectation.

John pushed that awareness aside. Lifting his eyes again, he met Mycroft’s, unblinking and resolute. A flicker of interest passed over Mycroft’s face. He sat up, legs uncrossing as he leaned forward, giving John his full attention. Emboldened by the mindfulness, John bent and set his gun on the small coffee table between them. He watched Mycroft’s eyes track the movement before shifting back to John’s face.

“As I said before, I’m staying,” John began, choosing his words with care. “I’ll help Sherlock with his mission, whatever that entails.” He resisted the urge to check Sherlock’s expression, forging on before he lost his nerve. “If that means dealing with your involvement, then I can accept that. But…” John took a deep breath, clenching his shaking left hand into a fist. Mycroft’s attention was like a physical thing — like the scrape of nails over a chalkboard.

 _Bloody hell,_ John thought for one hysterical moment, _give me a gun and a mark any day over this negotiation bullshit._

“But don’t misunderstand me. I’m not doing this for you,” John said, trying not to clench his jaw. “I won’t be your pawn.” Warming to his position, John straightened his shoulders and loosened his hands. The left fell still. “I’m not going to be one of your employees or one of your drones. I am and will be my own man. If you want, you can designate me as a contractual hire.” John steeled himself. “But I refuse to be anything more than that. I’m not swearing myself to you, your country, or your government.”

Mycroft interrupted him, “It is your country as well, Captain Watson.” His eyes narrowed, a speculative look crossing his face. “Your government, too.”

John shook his head, brows drawing down in a stony grimace. “No, it’s not,” he snapped, his anger flaring with the denial. “Hasn’t been for years now. I am my own man.” Holding Mycroft’s gaze and refusing to back down, John tilted his head slightly. “I’ll do what Sherlock needs me to, but I’ll do it on _my_ terms. I will not be loyal to you. I’m loyal to myself, and…” Here, John faltered. But he pushed on, forcing the words out. “And Sherlock.” He refused to look at Sherlock, locked in a stare-down with Mycroft. Still, he felt Sherlock’s eyes on him, and that intangible presence made John stand a little taller. “When all of this is done, whenever that is, I decide what happens to me then. Not you. Not… not even Sherlock.” John shifted from one foot to the other, a muscle ticking in his jaw from the force of his intensity. “Me. _I_ decide where I go from there. If that’s not good enough for you,” John finally looked at Sherlock, including him in the statement, “then I’m out.”

A hush fell. Mouth pressed into a thin, tense line, John waited for a response from the two brothers. Eyes darting between Sherlock and Mycroft, he tried to gauge their reactions. Sherlock looked perturbed, but the expression slowly faded into a pensive moue. He turned his face toward the ceiling. His brow furrowed, and he avoided John’s pointed gaze.

Mycroft, one eyebrow rising once more, looked…

John blinked.

Mycroft looked _pleased_.

“The terms you’ve presented are both fair and not unreasonable, Captain Watson,” he said. Still sitting forward, his eyes were shrewd. “I believe that I can agree to them. With one modification,” he added, holding up a hand to silence John when his mouth opened to release a retort. John subsided, and Mycroft offered a small, grateful smile. “I would still like to offer you your amnesty. To be granted once Sherlock’s name has been cleared, of course.”

John stared at him, instantly suspicious of the olive branch. “Why?” he asked, trying and failing to see the trap.

He received a placid smile in response. “Because bravery should be rewarded,” Mycroft said simply.

“Bravery?” John repeated with a snort. “This isn’t bravery. It’s moronic, is what it is.” His expression hardened, hands curling into fists. “What if I fail?”

Leaning back into the sofa again, Mycroft almost looked amused. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll fail, John,” Mycroft replied, startling both Sherlock and John with his casual use of the first name. Sherlock sat up and looked at his brother with a frown touching his brow. “On the contrary… I believe you will succeed.”

Still suspicious, John tilted his head to the side again. His gaze was evaluating, searching Mycroft’s perfectly composed face. “Do you?” he asked, his skepticism apparent in his tone.

A small smile spread slowly over Mycroft’s thin lips. “Indeed, I do,” he said, seemingly unbothered by John’s doubt. “You and I both know that Sherlock cannot hope to succeed on his own. The task set before him is far too much for one man to complete. I see that now. My brother may tell you that I believe you to be a coward,” John stiffened at the insult, and Mycroft dismissed his reaction with a negligent wave of one hand, “but that was merely a means to an end.” The smile widened, sharpening into something that looked like pride. “You’ve proven yourself to be a difficult man to dissuade today, John Watson. Clearly, you should not be underestimated. In fact,” Mycroft paused, looking between Sherlock and John, “I think you might just be the making of my brother.” 

* * *

Sherlock was still processing John’s vow — _I’m loyal to myself and… and Sherlock_ — when Mycroft’s words finally sank in. Rising to his feet, Sherlock turned on his brother. “Excuse me?” he asked, eyebrows snapping together in a glare. “‘The making of my brother.’ What, exactly, do you mean by that?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began in a placating tone, only to be silenced by Sherlock stepping forward and looming over him.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, Mycroft, but it stinks. It reeks of duplicity, and I won’t abide by it.” Glancing over his shoulder at John, Sherlock saw he was holding firm. Arms crossed over his chest, John tipped his head in silent agreement.

The quiet show of support made something warm flicker to life in Sherlock’s stomach. He squashed it down and rounded on his brother. It wouldn’t do to show such a reaction to Mycroft. No need to give his brother an edge when he was already arm-deep in something that stank to high heaven of manipulation.

“Explain what you mean,” Sherlock demanded, his eyes narrowed. “And do it now.”

Mycroft studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he tipped his head upward in an exaggerated expression of exasperation. “I’m not sure you want to hear it, Sherlock.” Facing them again, Mycroft’s eyes darted to John. “I think Captain Watson will enjoy hearing it even less.”

Sherlock’s teeth clicked together so hard that he felt his jaw pop. He heard John’s breathing quicken and knew they needed to stop dancing around this, and fast. Trying not to spit the words through his tight lips, Sherlock snapped, _“Mycroft.”_

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed. He settled himself more firmly on the sofa, hands resting flat on his knees. “It’s no coincidence that you were able to gain access to Captain Watson’s belongings. No chance opportunity that he was able to slip away without pursuit.” Eyeing them both with a stern expression, Mycroft raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Did you really think I wouldn’t predict any of this?” Mycroft sighed. “You are both far more predictable than you’d like to believe.”

Sherlock stiffened. Surely, Mycroft didn’t mean… _no._ “You… you manufactured this?” Sherlock managed, lips numb with shock and anger. Anger at Mycroft for his actions, and anger at himself for failing to recognize the manipulation.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Mycroft replied. He looked unbothered, though his gaze darted warily toward John, visible just over Sherlock’s shoulder. The words sank in before Sherlock finally unfroze and swivelled around to look at John.

He was staring at Mycroft with a strange expression. It looked like a mixture, a swirl of anger, shock and horror, each emotion battling for the upper hand. Then, his eyes darkening, John spun on his heel and marched out into the hall. His stride was stiff, his spine like a line of steel, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sherlock watched him until he was out of view, then shot his brother a glare.

“You really are a bastard, you know that?” he snarled, furious at them both.

Mycroft lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “How could I forget when you never fail to remind me?” There was an edge to his smile, making him appear almost saddened. Sherlock bared his teeth, stalking off to find John instead of replying. He found him standing in front of the screen door in the kitchen. His hands were still balled into rigid fists, the left shaking with minute tremours.

Sherlock paused in the open doorway, watching him uneasily. John had shed his jacket before Sherlock’s entrance. It lay discarded over a chair, and his back muscles were visible through his thin shirt, pulled taut beneath the clinging fabric. Sherlock watched the flex of John’s shoulder blades for a moment. He was almost entranced by the power visible in the slow tension before forcing his gaze away.

Eyes focused on the back of John’s head, Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. He cleared his throat with a soft cough, trying not to startle John. Still, he caught the small flinch that worked its way through John’s body and the subtle tightening of his jaw.

“John,” he said quietly. Sherlock hesitated before moving forward until he stood at John’s side. He spoke in a low, controlled tone. “My brother… he’s a manipulative arse. Always has been.” John was silent. Glancing sideways, Sherlock saw his head tilt in a small nod, the only acknowledgement that he’d heard him. Reassured by the gesture, Sherlock cleared his throat again. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t know that all this,” he sighed and gestured between them with a rueful expression, “was part of his plan.”

A muscle twitched in John’s cheek, muscles flexing as he swallowed. Sherlock watched his throat bob, staring at the sweep of his neck. Tearing his eyes away, he looked up and saw that John had turned his head to face him. Lips parted, Sherlock met John’s gaze. His expression looked raw, split open.

Sherlock nearly took a step back. Forcing himself to stay where he was, Sherlock met John’s eyes and pursed his lips. “You have questions.”

John nodded. Brow creased by his disquiet, he looked steadily back at Sherlock. The eye contact was intense, making Sherlock struggle not to look away. “Your brother…” John shook his head and tried again. “Sherlock, did he predict all of this? Set everything up? You, bringing me my duffle. And me…” John closed his eyes. There was heavy tension etched into the lines bracketing his mouth. “My leaving and coming back?” His eyes opened and zeroed in on Sherlock. Something raw in John’s gaze seemed to beg him for answers.

Sherlock was willing to give them. If John had second thoughts, Sherlock would do his best to remind him that he wasn’t alone in this — that they were a team. He’d been almost certain that John wanted to kiss him in the yard, and Sherlock yearned for that closeness again. He wouldn’t risk losing the chance for more between them. Whatever it took, he’d show John that they were allied. United, for better or for worse.

“Mycroft is…” Sherlock paused, choosing his words as carefully as he could. “He is manipulative. And smart. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s a genius. He sees things that even I miss. And this,” Sherlock sighed, waving a hand to indicate both he and John again, “isn’t the first time he’s manufactured such a scheme. Human interaction is always a test with him. That’s how he makes people prove themselves. By testing them. Setting up a manipulation to see what they’ll do.”

Eyes narrowed, John wet his bottom lip with a slow, thoughtful sweep of his tongue. Sherlock resisted the urge to track the motion with his eyes.

“Why’s he done it this time?” John asked in a strained voice. “What did all of this prove?”

Sherlock turned toward the door, hoping to buy himself time to reply. His mind was a mess, too many emotions swirling through his thoughts, blurring his usual rationality. He looked out into the yard, watching the sun cast shadows from the trees. “He proved that I would put you before myself… and that you won’t actually leave.” Chancing a quick glance, Sherlock saw John’s shoulders lift. He looked defensive and closed-off. Seeing him react that way made Sherlock’s stomach twist with regret, but he couldn’t blame John for the response. “I know,” he said, sighing, defeated. “He’s awful.”

Hands clenching slowly at his sides, John tipped his chin downward in a curt nod. “That’s putting it lightly.” His tone was strangled, but there was an attempt at levity there that finally let Sherlock take a full breath.

“I know,” he repeated. The corner of his mouth twitched. Schooling his expression into something safer, Sherlock turned back to face John. “But he is a necessary evil, John. I — _we_ need him. But only to get us where we need to be. Once we’re out of here, wherever we go next, it’ll just be us. You and me.” His voice softened, eyebrows drawing together in an earnest look that John met with a speculative light in his eyes. “You came back because you don’t want to be alone. You won’t be, not anymore.” Sherlock’s lips quirked, amused at his own thoughts before he gave voice to them. “Just the two of us, against the world. Yes?” The amusement slipped away, turning his question into something that felt desperate. Sherlock tried to rein it back, failed and watched John closely for his response.

John didn’t reply right away. He stood, still and silent, studying Sherlock’s face for what felt like ages to Sherlock. Then, slowly, he nodded, and Sherlock’s tension dissipated.

“Just the two of us,” John repeated. It sounded cautious. Like he was trying the words out. Tasting them, seeing how they fit in his mouth, on his lips.

Sherlock’s smile softened. “Yes.”

Throat bobbing with the force of his almost audible swallow, John nodded again. It seemed easier this time, more confident. “Alright. Together, then.” 

Relief, and something sharper that left him feeling almost giddy, rushed through Sherlock. Fumbling for the right words, he managed to croak out, “Good. That’s… yes, that’s good. Um. Thank you.” Clearing his throat, forcing back the roughness in his tone, Sherlock pulled his composure back around him. He straightened his spine and sucked in a steadying breath. _Back to business,_ he thought. “Well. I’m sure Mycroft has plans to send us somewhere ridiculous.” He checked John’s expression, saw an expectant edge to his gaze, and relaxed further. “I suppose we should hear him out.”

John muttered a soft assent. The sound of it, the existence of that trust, set fire to a small blaze within Sherlock’s chest. It warmed him, speeding through his veins and tingling right into the tips of his fingers. Telling himself not to look back, Sherlock turned toward the hallway. He led the way out of the kitchen, knowing John would follow.


	26. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to make sense of new emotions, while John learns some difficult truths about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit short. My laptop charger died earlier in the week, and I lost a few good writing days waiting for a new one to arrive. I almost thought I'd have to skip this update but managed to pull it out in the eleventh hour!

John tried to avoid Mycroft’s smug, expectant gaze when he and Sherlock returned to the sitting room together. Standing in the middle of the space with his hands flexing slowly at his sides, John waited for someone to speak. But no one did, and the silence stretched out. John shifted from one foot to the other, battling with a rising sense of uncertainty. Mycroft’s manipulation had thrown him for a loop, shaking the foundations of John’s earlier convictions. But Sherlock… Sherlock had reminded John of his reasons for returning. He came back for a purpose, and that purpose had followed John into the kitchen. Had cleared John’s mind of some of the disbelief John felt at finding out Mycroft had engineered everything that had happened since they arrived at the safe house.   


Slowly finding his centre again, John cleared his throat and watched Sherlock cross the room, sinking onto the loveseat. Unlike before, Sherlock didn’t sprawl out over the furniture, this time restricting himself to a singular cushion. John, after shooting the too-soft chair a wary look, moved to sit down next to him.   


With everyone finally seated, Mycroft let out a long, slow breath. The sound carried his evident relief as if Mycroft had been holding the exhale in for far too long and could only now finally breathe.   


John eyed him with a dubious expression. Mycroft, as if feeling the scrutiny, turned to John with an inquisitive gleam in his eyes. “You look like you have something you’d like to say, Captain Watson.” It was a statement rather than a question, and John’s eyes narrowed.   


“I don’t like you,” he said in a flat voice. If Mycroft was taken aback by the vitriol, he didn’t show it.

“So sorry to hear that, Captain,” Mycroft replied in an unperturbed voice. He looked utterly unapologetic, a fact which made John scowl. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a flash of teeth and glanced over in time to catch the slow fade of Sherlock’s smirk. The sight of a smile from Sherlock, even a sardonic, fleeting one, sent a pleasant flicker through John. 

Forcing his eyes toward the coffee table, John saw several file folders set on top. Next to them was a small, compact laptop. It looked similar to the one Sherlock had used to message Mycroft. This one was clearly the twin to Sherlock’s device. 

“What’s all this?” John asked, switching gears. It was a talent of his, one that let him flow from one problem to the next, setting aside the unimportant for the crucial. It came in handy when he was out in the field and was just as useful now.   


“Ah, yes.” Mycroft sat up and reached for two of the folders, suddenly all business. “This,” he said, handing one to Sherlock and the other to John, “is where the two of you will be heading. If luck is on our side, perhaps within the next day and a half.”  


John accepted the file with marked reluctance. Sherlock took the other without comment, and John pushed back his hesitation in the face of Sherlock’s calm acceptance. Setting the folder on his lap, John flipped it open, read the first page, and looked up at Mycroft with a frown. “Portugal?” he asked, receiving a nod in response. He blinked down at the papers. “Why? What’s there?”

Without looking up from his own folder, flipping quickly through its contents, Sherlock replied in an absent tone, “Many things. But for use? Drugs, mostly.” John blinked before looking over to see a crease furrowing Sherlock’s brow. “Drug trafficking, to be more specific.”  


Drug trafficking? John tapped his fingers idly against the edge of the manilla file cover. “I thought Portugal decriminalized drug use in the early 2000s?”   


“Yes,” Sherlock said, nodding again before looking up from his reading. “They did, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t still trafficking. The use of drugs may be legal — within regulated restrictions, of course — but that doesn’t mean trafficking or the illicit creation and distribution of controlled narcotics are allowed.” His eyes took on a thoughtful gleam, and his gaze was suddenly unfocused. “Decriminalization means substance use isn’t treated as a criminal matter, but as a medical one.” Sighing, Sherlock shook his head slightly as if clearing it. That far-off look faded, and his gaze zeroed in on John again. “Drug use always presents steady demand. Where there is demand, there is supply. And that means drug trafficking.” 

John considered Sherlock’s words. Feeling eyes on him, he glanced at Mycroft. The elder Holmes blinked at the sudden eye contact before looking at his brother with a strange, unreadable expression on his face. Something about it made John wonder at Sherlock’s earlier unfocused gaze.   


He shook it off, but not before slotting it away for later perusal. “What does this have to do with Sherlock?” he asked before amending, “Well, us now, I suppose.” 

Sherlock’s smile was small and pleased, flickering into existence and fading just as fast as it had before. “Moriarty had his fingers in many pies,” he said, the satisfied expression slipping into a darker one. “Trafficking of all sorts — human, drugs, firearms — is really just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what he was involved in.” 

A low whistle slipped through John’s teeth. He was both impressed and alarmed at this glimpse into the network Sherlock had only briefly alluded to before. “You weren’t kidding when you said you couldn’t do this alone, huh?” John caught Sherlock’s quick glance from the edge of his vision. He looked up to meet it, but Sherlock was already looking back at the papers in his lap with a pensive expression.   


“You have no idea,” he muttered. 

Mycroft brought their attention back to the dossiers. “Some of our more recent intel revealed a centralized drug trafficking operation in Cascais.”

Paused in the middle of flipping the page, fingers still gripping the edge of the paper, John looked up with a small frown. “Cascais?” he repeated, bemused. “The tourist village?” He finished turning the page and pursed his lips. “Seems a strange place to set up a drug trafficking site.”   


The corners of Mycroft’s mouth tugged down, but it was Sherlock who spoke up first. 

“Cascais has over 200,000 people and a multitude of tourists,” he recited as if speaking from a remembered tour guide script. Knowing the little he did about the disgraced detective, John thought it was more than possible that Sherlock had memorized the Wikipedia page at some point. “The port is small, and the city's economy was based in fishing before tourism became the main revenue generator. There is still a healthy fishing community there.” Leaning back, sinking deeper into the loveseat, Sherlock traced the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip with a thoughtful expression. “It’s rather brilliant, actually. Easier to slip in under the radar if you use fishing crafts and ship out of a smaller port. The authorities rarely suspect the family-owned and operated outfits. And if they do, I’m sure they’re paid off handsomely. I’ve no doubt that the steady influx of European and American tourists make up a large portion of first-line clientele.” Sherlock sat forward again, looking at his brother, his expression animated. “It does seem to fit, but are you sure this is the hub?” 

John thought Sherlock was borderline radiant in this state. He was intense: entirely focused and keen-eyed. John told himself his gaze didn’t look as appreciative as it felt on his face.  


Mycroft nodded, unruffled by Sherlock’s vigour. “We are quite certain. The intel we received is from a reliable source, one that has never led us astray. One of my agents says he heard chatter about someone high ranking, possibly expected in the area within the next week. Someone they call the Colonel.”

John stiffened at the title. Almost as if he were attuned to John’s reactions, Sherlock turned to him at once. Their responses did not go unnoticed, and Mycroft turned his evaluating gaze onto both of them.   


“You know who that is,” he said, his tone making it a statement rather than a question.   


Slowly, John nodded. He stared down at the folder opened across his lap, and his jaw clenched. He didn’t speak right away and felt Sherlock shift beside him. When John looked up again, Sherlock was watching him. His gaze was just as intent as before, and John blinked at the force of it. The scrutiny continued for a second longer before Sherlock turned to his brother. 

“He is John’s employer. Well…” he amended, a cutting, humourless little smile curling the edges of his lips, “was. Before, you know. Everything.” Sherlock gestured as if to indicate the situation they were in.   


“Ah,” Mycroft hummed in sudden understanding. He sounded intrigued, and John grudgingly met his inquisitive gaze. “You know who he is, then?”   


John squinted in thought. With the tip of his tongue pressed to his bottom lip, he chose his words with care. “Not explicitly, no,” John admitted, expecting a flicker of disappointment in the pale blue eyes fixed on his face. Either Mycroft didn’t feel such an emotion, or he was far better at hiding his reactions because his gaze remained level and unaffected. “But I’ve spoken with him on the phone a few times. He…” John paused, considering, his mouth twisting in an embarrassed grimace. “He was the one who first initiated contact after I was invalided. The one who extended the offer for my recent employment.” 

Mycroft leaned forward, his stare hard on John’s face. He was suddenly keen. “How did he reach out to you?”   


Taken aback by the abrupt vehemence, John swallowed and wet his dry lips before replying, “There was a man. He followed me before reaching out. Gave me a card.” 

Some fleeting flicker of an expression passed over Mycroft’s face, and he shared a look with Sherlock over John’s head. Catching it, John frowned. 

“What?” he demanded, looking to Sherlock for answers. “You knew that already. I told you all of this on the bus.”   


Sherlock nodded slowly, dragging his eyes away from his brother to meet John’s gaze. “Yes. I remember.” He squinted, expression appraising as it turned back to Mycroft. “It didn’t mean much to me at the time, but, maybe…” His voice trailed off, eyebrows drawing down. “Do you think it’s him?”  


Instead of answering Sherlock’s question, Mycroft continued to watch John. It was to John that he directed his next question. “What did he look like, this man? The one who approached you.”  


John thought back. It was no small feat: it had been years since John first met the man. The one who approached him while John sat on a bench in Regent’s park, feeling sorry for himself and alone in the world. Eyes tightly shut, he pictured that day. He felt the cold bite of January air and smelled the wet, wild scent of earth still damp from the recent rain. Slowly, his forehead creased, John spoke.   


“He had brown hair. It was cut short, I think. Yes. Yeah, short hair for sure. He was taller than me but shorter than Sherlock. Sorry, but I can’t be more specific there.” John grimaced at the irritated huff he heard from Sherlock’s direction. The expression smoothed as he went on. “White man, maybe… early-to-mid-30s? Dressed well. Not… not posh, but not too casual. Decent jacket, nice trousers. Didn’t look out of place in the park — a bit like a business bloke on a lunch break stroll.” John shrugged and opened his eyes. He found both Holmes brothers staring at him. Just as it had before, the double scrutiny made John feel like a specimen, pinned in place and waiting to be dissected. Trying to shake off the sensation, he pushed his shoulders back and lifted his chin. “What?” 

“John,” Sherlock said in a soft voice, “is there any chance that he was ex-military?”  


John blinked at the question. “No, I don’t—” He paused, suddenly uncertain. Taking a moment to consider the query, he slowly nodded. “Maybe. Now that you… yeah, it’s possible. His hair cut was short, like I said. Not quite military. Close, though, like maybe he’d served once, and recently.” Fingers drumming against the open folder spread over his knees, John nodded again. “Yeah, he could have been. Not sure I noticed it at the time, but looking back… yeah. Yes,” he said with more conviction. The longer he thought about it, the more likely it seemed.

Eyes closing, Sherlock pulled in a long, shallow breath. It shuddered back out through his lips before he opened his eyes again and glanced at his brother. There was a small smile playing along the corners of his lips, one that looked like he’d discovered the answer to some impossible problem. Mycroft tilted his head in a small gesture of assent at Sherlock’s glance. Turning back to John, Sherlock favoured him with a steady, searching look. “John, I don’t think you’re the first ex-soldier the Colonel approached.” His voice was soft but level. There was an undercurrent of insinuation running beneath the statement.   


John considered Sherlock’s words for a moment. It made sense: the Colonel had served as well. It wasn’t any significant stretch to think he’d reach out to those like him. But there was something more, something that dug at John and wouldn’t let him rest. 

Eyes turning back to the file, something clicked. John heard Sherlock’s voice, playing in his mind, repeating words he’d spoken moments earlier.   


_Trafficking of all sorts — human, drugs, firearms — is really just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what he was involved in._  


John’s hands tensed. Fingers stiffening, they slowly curled inward, forming tight fists.   


Sherlock’s eyes dropped to track the movement, and he murmured, “John.” There was a question there, unspoken amid the louder offer of comfort.   


“Arms dealing,” John said through his teeth. The words emerged stilted, strangled by his clenched jaw. “You said Moriarty was involved in all sorts of trafficking, including firearms.” Forcing his hands to relax, John looked at Sherlock, tendons stretching against the tension thrumming through his muscles. “Do you think…?” The sentence trailed off, John unwilling to give voice to the suspicion rising in his mind.   


Sherlock seemed to have no such issue. “Do I think Moriarty was involved with the weapons dealing in Afghanistan? Particularly, the operation that almost cost you your life and gave you the wounds etched into your body?” His eyes darted over John’s face, searching, appraising. Unblinking. “Yes. Yes, I do.” 

* * *

Sherlock watched John closely, tracking his reactions as they occurred. His eyes flickered over every inch of John’s face, taking note of the wrinkles at the edge of his mouth. Reading tension in the grooves etched into his forehead and finding far too little chance for laughter in the crow’s feet at the corners of John’s eyes. Watching all those short-lived micro-expressions, Sherlock felt awed. This was how John looked when he was open: raw, not trying to hide his emotions. The flickers came and went too quickly to identify, one running into the next and morphing into another. 

Sherlock waited with trepidation and faint, rising concern until John’s eyes slid closed and his face cleared. For a moment, before everything faded from his expression, John looked gutted. 

“John?” Sherlock prompted in a gentle voice. His hand lifted, hovering between them, uncertain. He shot Mycroft a look, but his brother was staring out the window, his own face carefully blank. Sherlock knew Mycroft was attempting to give John privacy, and he felt a flicker of unexpected gratitude for the kindness. He turned his focus back to John, wondering how best to comfort the tension radiating from the mercenary, but the moment had passed. John’s eyes were open and fixed on the windows across from the loveseat, his pulse racing visibly in his neck.   


“I’m fine.” His reply was rough, made gravelly by the emotion darkening his eyes. “I just…” Pulling in a breath, John dragged his gaze away from the window. It alighted, flighty and fierce, upon Sherlock. “You said my employer — _ex-employer —_ is part of Moriarty’s network, yeah?” 

Sherlock nodded, head tilting at a slow, curious angle. “Yes.” There was more he could say, but he held back. Sherlock felt he knew where John was going with his line of questioning but didn’t dare interrupt. John was lit up, agitated and exuding adrenaline despite the mask that had slid over his features, concealing his emotions. It was better to let him arrive at his own conclusions rather than Sherlock force them upon him. 

John’s tongue darted out in a quick sweep over his lip before catching at the corner of his mouth. It stayed there, John’s eyebrows lowering into a dismayed expression. “So, the man who hired me, the one who kept me from eating a bullet…” He faltered, gaze sliding to his gun where it rested on the coffee table. “He was connected to the same group of men who tortured me in Afghanistan?” It sounded like a question, but Sherlock knew it wasn’t, not really. It was a request for confirmation, tinged dark by John’s desperate need to know. 

Again, Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John,” he said softly, watching John’s face contort with another mixed wash of emotions. John didn’t speak for a long moment, his dark eyes still fixed on the Sig. The way he was looking at it made Sherlock uncomfortable, and he squirmed uneasily in his seat. He took the stretching silence as his cue to fill in the blanks. “Moriarty had a history of using people for his own means. No one mattered to him. There was a woman, Irene Adler. He used her to gain information about a terrorist counter-measure.” Sherlock caught movement from the corner of his eye as Mycroft turned to stare at him with a warning in his expression. 

Sherlock ignored the look and went on.   


“Long story short, he left her to the wolves when she’d served her usefulness. When I had beaten her at her own game, Moriarty no longer cared what happened to her. He was…” Sherlock took a moment, frowning at John’s gun as well until the words slotted into place. “He was ruthless. A monster.”  


“So you’ve said,” John muttered. His voice was empty, devoid of inflection. The sound of it made Sherlock’s frown deepen with concern. 

“Yes,” he allowed, lips pursed, “so I did. But it bears repeating. Whoever stepped in to take Moriarty’s place is likely the same man who recruited you. Probably someone ranked highly in the network. Maybe even a second-in-command.” Sherlock swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry enough to make speaking difficult. “I doubt it’s a coincidence that you were tortured by a group connected to the same man who employed you.” Hands clasped tightly in his lap, Sherlock chose his next words with care. “You said the man you were put in touch with — the Colonel. You said he was discharged before you were injured. Right?”  


John nodded but didn’t speak. Stress radiated off of him in nearly-tangible waves, and Sherlock tried not to wince at the intensity he felt sitting so near John’s tumultuous emotions.   


Gently, Sherlock prompted, “And, when you told your superiors about the nature of your ambush, none of them would listen?” Another nod, this one curt. Sherlock sighed, his exhale long and slow. “Shortly before our final face-off, Moriarty broke into the Tower of London. He was arrested while sitting on the throne with the crown on his head, holding the orb and sceptre. He was tried in court, offered no defence, and walked free.”   


Back straightening with apparent surprise, John turned to Sherlock with a frown. His eyes searched Sherlock’s face before he asked, “What? How does something like that even happen?” 

Sherlock offered a small, tight smile, devoid of amusement. It felt like something dead on his lips. “Blackmail,” he said simply, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. Because it _was_ simple. At the time, Sherlock had been aghast. Now, he knew it was merely par for the course. He hadn’t yet learned the extent of Moriarty’s reach then. He knew better than to doubt it now. “Moriarty was a spider. I said as much at the trial when I was called to testify. He spun a web, a massive one at that, and he knew exactly how to make each strand dance just the way he needed. It would not surprise me in the least to find that he had a strong grip on both the men who harmed you and on your superiors. And, likely,” Sherlock cast his brother a glance and received a small nod, “the British Government, as well.” 

A peculiar look passed over John’s face. “Is this… was all of that, everything that happened to me…” John fumbled for his words, teeth pressing hard into his bottom lip before he went on, “Was it all just some plot?” His eyes slid over to Mycroft, no doubt comparing the elder Holmes’ manipulations and deceptions to the conspiracy quickly revealing itself before them. 

“I can’t be certain,” Sherlock replied, recapturing John’s attention with his quiet voice. “But I don’t doubt that there was some level of premeditation involved. Maybe not to the extent of a full conspiracy, but there’s something deeper here. One man is rarely worth such effort, even skilled as you are, John.” Sherlock waited and relished the small, sharply wry smile John flashed in response to the comment. “No. I would say the more probable chance is the general disillusion of a soldier. I doubt Moriarty’s men could have anticipated you would tag along on that particular patrol, and therefore end up as a liability. I imagine no one expected you to survive. When they found out you had and were invalided back to London as well, I can only assume they saw an opportunity and seized it.” Finished outlining his thought process, Sherlock folded his hands in his lap and waited for John’s response.

It wasn’t long in coming. “So they were watching me. Or…” John’s forehead creased, nose wrinkling with the force of his frown. “Or found me, somehow. Once I was back in London. Then what? They just took advantage of my situation?”

His mouth set into a thin, grim line, Sherlock nodded. “Yes, exactly. With your training and experience, paired with the betrayal you faced at the hands of both your comrades and your own country, you were a prime target for recruitment.”

John pulled a face. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, his expression darkening. “That feels…” His voice trailed off, leaving Sherlock to pick up the thread.

“Bad?” he suggested.  


John let out a harsh bark of dark amusement. “Think that’s putting things a bit lightly, mate.”  


They shared a smile, a moment of shivering connection. It made Sherlock feel lit up again, thrumming with sudden energy he didn’t know how to spend. His eyes moved over John’s face, searching and finding it wonderfully open, despite the difficult topic. His gaze began to drift lower, down toward John’s mouth, when Mycroft cleared his throat and the moment cracked open.

“As thrilled as I am to see that you two are getting along like a house on fire,” Sherlock’s brother said in his posh, impatient drawl, “we still have many matters to discuss.”   


Rounding on him, Sherlock snapped, “It’s hardly past 7 am, Mycroft. Some of us haven’t even had our tea yet.”  


Eyebrows lifting, Mycroft favoured Sherlock with a blade-edged smile. “Ah, yes. Tea. That is a wonderful idea, Sherlock. Why don’t you go ahead and make some for the three of us.” 

It wasn’t a request, and Sherlock bristled. “Why don’t you get off your lazy arse and—”

A muscle flexed in Mycroft’s jaw. “Are you really so obtuse, little brother?” he interrupted in a sharp tone. “I wish to speak with Captain Watson alone. I was trying to be polite.”  


Surprised by the point-blank statement, Sherlock went still. “But, I…” He let the sentence trail off, casting John an uncertain glance. The thought of leaving the two of them alone sat uncomfortably with Sherlock. Though John had more than proven himself capable of standing up to Mycroft, Sherlock was reluctant to abandon John to his brother’s continued machinations. Even with John’s gun still sitting on the coffee table, within easy reach, he felt… 

_Protective,_ Sherlock thought, finally putting a name to the emotion rooting him in place. He felt a powerful urge to protect John, as ridiculous as it sounded. John didn’t need protecting — he could snap Sherlock like a twig if he caught him by surprise. But that didn’t banish the urge, and Sherlock hesitated, caught by his indecision.

“Sherlock,” his brother muttered, evidently annoyed by Sherlock’s continued presence. But it was to John that Sherlock looked, disregarding Mycroft in favour of gauging the mercenary’s decision.   


He’d meant it when he alluded to John that they were a unit. Just the two of them, Mycroft be damned.  


John caught Sherlock’s evaluating gaze and offered a small smile. It sat like a wound upon his face, ragged but confident. “It’s fine,” he said, his tone one of gentle reassurance. “I think Mycroft and I both know where we stand now.” His eyes flashed briefly to Mycroft, hardened, and returned to Sherlock. There, they softened minutely, just enough for the lit-up feeling still humming through Sherlock’s body to flicker into a rising inferno. “Tea sounds good.” 

Clearly dismissed by both his brother and John, Sherlock tilted his head in a curt nod. He tore his eyes away from John’s open face, watching it close off as John turned his focus back to Mycroft. Shooting his brother a pointed glare and receiving a single raised eyebrow in response, Sherlock rose to his feet. He left the room at a clipped pace, fighting the instincts that shouted at him to stay. 

To his dismay, he realized the kitchen was too far for him to hear the conversation. Sherlock toyed with the idea of lingering in the hallway to eavesdrop, but his brother would be expecting that. He would undoubtedly instruct John to whisper just to metaphorically thumb his nose at Sherlock’s attempts to overhear.

Sherlock grabbed the kettle and slammed it beneath the tap. He’d filled it just that morning and had failed to pour the water once it boiled, too distracted by John’s sudden return. When the water —thankfully well cooled and now only lukewarm — overfilled and poured over his hand, Sherlock jumped in surprise. He sloshed water down his front and cursed at himself for being distracted. Filling the kettle properly, Sherlock set it to boil and reached for a tea towel. He pressed it futilely to his suit jacket and shirt, but they were too wet, clinging to his slender chest. 

Disgusted with himself for the easily avoidable error, Sherlock left the kettle to its task of boiling the water and trotted upstairs. There, he closed himself in his chosen bedroom to peel off both the damp shirt and jacket. He hung them to dry in the bathroom. Sherlock dressed quickly in a black dress shirt, already mourning the damage to the claret shirt's expensive silk. He didn’t bother replacing the jacket with a dry one. It was already growing warm in the house, and the other jackets Sherlock had on hand wouldn’t match the trousers he wore. As it was, Sherlock thought he cut a sharp figure in the charcoal trousers, the black shirt contrasting with his pale skin and making it appear almost creamy.

He tried not to think about whether or not John would feel the same. 

Dried, dressed and wearing a faint flush of flustered annoyance on his cheeks, Sherlock made his way back to the first floor. He heard quiet murmurs in the sitting room, voices pitched too low for him to make out the words. Frustrated, Sherlock turned into the kitchen. The kettle had worked its way to a boil and shut off automatically, leaving Sherlock to make the tea. He set about the task with far less reverence than usual, in too much of a hurry to return to the sitting room and interrupt the little tête-à-tête occurring within.   


With the tea steeped, Sherlock paused. He stared at the three mugs, realizing he knew how both himself and Mycroft took it, but not John. Eyeing the third cup, Sherlock tried to deduce it from what little he knew of John.   


John was a man accustomed to making do with the bare minimum. It was likely that he was used to a quick cuppa of military coffee: anything hot and caffeinated, drunk down with a grimace and a sigh. Sugar didn’t suit John. He was too hardened, rough-edged and deadly. And he was a doctor, unlikely to add tooth-rotting flavour if he could avoid it. But maybe not above a small indulgence if it included crucial vitamins.  


Mind made up, Sherlock turned to the fridge and rooted inside. There was a carton of milk already opened. Sherlock hadn’t opened it, and he doubted anyone would have placed fresh groceries in the fridge just to then open them. 

His deductive conclusion? John drank his tea with milk. Probably no more than a splash, being the conservative individual he was.   


Pleased with himself and more than a little smug at his deductions, Sherlock added a bit of milk to the third mug of tea. He watched the white swirl into the darker liquid and grinned. Already anticipating John’s surprise, Sherlock returned the milk to the fridge, juggled the mugs in his hands, and stalked into the sitting room.   


He was not disappointed by John’s reaction. Sherlock placed Mycroft’s mug on the table without a word, turning to John with both their teas in his hands. John reached out to take the one Sherlock offered, and their fingers brushed. An electric jolt shot up Sherlock’s arm. It made its way to his heart but, instead of stopping it like an actual lightning bolt, it only quickened his pulse and brought colour to his cheeks.

The contact disappeared, the sensation lingered, and John looked up at him with a small smile.   


“Thanks,” he said, hands curling around the mug. The easy gratitude went unanswered as Sherlock barely managed to nod and sank down beside John on the loveseat again. The conversation had halted between John and Mycroft upon Sherlock’s return, and a stilted silence hung heavy in the air.  


It was broken seconds later by John, who, taking a sip of his tea, made a soft noise of surprise.  


Sherlock grinned into his mug and took a drink to hide it. When he set his cup down, he turned a falsely polite look of inquiry upon John, who was staring at him.

“You figured out how I take it?” 

Sherlock tipped his head in another small nod. He suddenly felt anxious, wondering if John would find the small deduction invasive.

But John just offered another of his small smiles and said, “Of course you did.” He took another sip and shook his head, adding, “Brilliant,” quietly beneath his breath.   


Sherlock tried to hide his minor preening in response and knew he’d failed when Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat. 

“Yes, thank you, Sherlock. Now, if we might regroup?” He sounded annoyed.

Just barely managing to hold back his grimace, Sherlock shot a fake smile at his brother. “By all means, Mycroft,” he forced out through his teeth.   


Mycroft shot him a sour look and an eye roll. “Fantastic,” he said in a dry voice. Clearing his throat again, he leaned forward and tapped a hand on an envelope. “Captain Watson and I were discussing his employers.”  


“Ex-employers,” John corrected, raising an eyebrow at Mycroft’s irritated expression.  


“Yes, yes, of course,” Mycroft drawled. The indulgent tone faded, replaced by a harder voice as he turned toward Sherlock. “Captain Watson explained that he has no name for the Colonel and never met with him face to face. He has, however, heard his voice. I have here several flash drives.” Mycroft tapped the envelope again, quick and Staccato. “Each contains recorded chatter from Portugal — the same chatter revealed the extent of the drug trafficking in the area. Captain Watson has agreed to listen to the recordings and see if he recognizes any as the Colonel."

Sherlock tapped a finger to the side of his mug before setting it down again. Eyeing the envelope, he reached out and picked it up off the table, feeling the flash drives through the padded packaging. “Have you identified which voice belongs to who?”  


“For the most part,” Mycroft said, leaning back into the sofa. “It’s more difficult to know who is who within the network itself. Easy to tell who is giving the orders, but not how high they stand. If Captain Watson recognizes the Colonel’s voice in these recordings, we might then determine who took over after Moriarty’s death.”  


Hands rising, Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Right.” He frowned, glancing briefly at John before looking back to Mycroft. “And if John doesn’t hear or identify anyone he thinks is the Colonel?”  


Mycroft’s confident expression slipped. Just for a moment, revealing an uncharacteristic look of uncertainty before the mask was back in place again.  


“Then you both will go to Portugal and hope you run into him.”  


John barked out a stiff laugh. “Great plan,” he said, voice laced with heavy sarcasm.

Spreading his hands in an almost imploring gesture, Mycroft shrugged. “Needs must, Captain Watson. Needs must.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, I don't know if there's much drug trafficking - or any - in Cascais. In my reading and research about decriminalization and substance use in Portugal, I found an overall general bit of info. So don't take this as gospel.
> 
> That being said, I work in a substance use support agency that practices overdose prevention and harm reduction, and this [article](https://time.com/longform/portugal-drug-use-decriminalization/) about decriminalization in Portugal was a really interesting read. If you're interested in substance use support, decriminalization, and harm reduction, I recommend having a look!


	27. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock realize the power of a name.

Mycroft set John up with a laptop and the recordings. While the two brothers discussed Portugal and travel plans, working out specifics based on Mycroft’s intel, John listened to the collected audio clips. Hunkered against the arm of the love seat, he pulled a set of large headphones over his ears and tried to make himself comfortable. It was no small feat, with John still feeling unsettled by his earlier realizations. Knowing what he knew now — that the people who had given him new purpose after Afghanistan had been the same ones who had nearly ended his life — left John feeling off-balance. 

But he tried to focus past the swirling pattern of his disturbed thoughts. He had an important task before him, one that might bring both him and Sherlock closer to resolution. The sooner they identified the Colonel, the sooner Sherlock would be exonerated from his ‘fraudulent’ crimes. 

And the sooner that John might have his own vengeance on those who had ruined his life. 

With the open laptop balanced on his knees, John slid a flash drive into the USB port and waited for the files stored on the device to load. The action reminded him all too strongly of his early days in Morocco, of a time before he met Sherlock. He’d broken into an apartment, and there, hunkered over some stranger’s computer, John had his first glimpse of Sherlock. He’d known him only as ‘Phoenix’ back then. 

John glanced at Sherlock, marvelling at how that had only been five days ago. Sherlock was occupied by his brother, to John’s relief, and oblivious to the scrutiny. John turned his attention back to his work as the flash drive loaded on the laptop’s screen. The folders were well labelled, the computer decoding the encryptions for him with the password Mycroft had inputted earlier. 

Opening the first audio file, John closed his eyes and listened. At first, he heard nothing. Then, the faint sounds of traffic drifted into his ears, distant and pervasive. The din slowly faded out, replaced by an unfamiliar voice. John recognized the language as Portuguese. For a moment, he worried that he wouldn’t be able to understand more than the few words he knew, but then the voice switched to English. John quickly realized why: the person who responded did so in English, with a British accent. The conversation was intriguing, clearly in code as the two speakers discussed ‘ordering parts.’ To John, it was evident that they weren’t really talking about ship repair. 

He listened for a few minutes to make sure he didn’t recognize either of the voices and closed the audio file. Pausing to stretch, rolling the tension out of his neck muscles, John selected the second file. It was similar to the first, though this time, the entire conversation was in Portuguese. He recognized a few words but didn’t bother to listen past the minute mark. 

John repeated the same process through the next four recordings. Each was a mixture of languages, most in Portuguese, some in English, some a combination of both. A few were in languages he didn’t recognize. None of the voices were familiar. He was beginning to grow antsy, worried he wouldn’t hear anyone he recognized. Sitting still and waiting for action had never been John’s favourite pastime, and he struggled to push back a sense of creeping boredom. 

Then, on his next audio file, John heard something that made him sit upright again. It wasn’t the Colonel, but John recognized the voice all the same. He tilted his head to one side, eyes closed as he listened intently. He was so focused that Sherlock’s light touch on his arm made him jump. 

Eyes flying open, John blinked at him. Slipping the headphones down to his neck, John paused the playback and asked, “What is it?”

“You reacted to something,” Sherlock said, his eyes searching John’s face. “The Colonel?” 

John shook his head. “No. Someone else. I think…” He frowned, tapping a finger against the hard plastic of the laptop casing. “I think it might be the man who first approached me in London. I’m not sure. But I definitely recognize the voice.” 

Mycroft, who had been watching without comment, suddenly sat forward, his interest clearly piqued. “Can you make a note of the recording number and the time? We’ll look at matching the voice once you’re finished listening to the others. Maybe we have his photo on file. You might better recognize a face compared to a voice.”

Nodding, John glanced at the screen. “Sure.” Without speaking and as if reading his mind, Sherlock handed him a notepad and pen. John took them with only mild surprise, flashing a quick smile of gratitude. He thought he caught a brief burn of colour in Sherlock’s cheeks, but either John imagined it, or it had disappeared by the time he looked up again from taking notes. Sherlock was focused on an open folder in his lap, his upper body once more inclined toward his brother. 

John shrugged and pulled the headphones back over his ears. He listened to a few more recordings, making notes as he went. John heard the same voice more than once, jotting down the files and the timestamps each time. It wasn’t until he was half an hour into the task, his tea forgotten and long since gone cold, that John heard it. 

Heard _him._

The call started like many of the other recordings: far-off traffic and the slight crackle of a long-distance call. The first voice spoke in Portuguese. But the reply was in immediate English, a man snapping, “Is the encryption software running?” 

John sucked in a startled breath, his eyes flashing open. That voice… he knew _that_ voice all too well. John immediately recognized it from the countless times it had spoken in his ear. It was the same firm tone that had outlined numerous jobs, speaking in a poised accent that still carried the edge of a rougher life beneath it. 

John swallowed, stiffening when the first speaker replied with a waver in his voice, “Sir, I didn’t—” He never managed more than that because the voice John recognized — that of the Colonel — cut him off at once. 

“No encryption, no call. You know the procedures. I only hope you’ve been using the software on the other calls you’ve made.” A pause, tense and drawn out. Foreboding. “Believe me, if you haven’t, there will be consequences.” 

“But sir—” 

The line went dead, the call terminated on the Colonel’s end. For a long moment, John sat stiff and still, just listening to the hum of the dial tone until the recording ended with a soft _click_. With shaking hands, he slowly lifted the headphones off and set both them and the laptop on the coffee table. 

John’s unsteady movements did not go unnoticed. Both Holmes brothers fell abruptly silent, two sets of sharp eyes turning to him. 

“John?” Sherlock asked, swivelling around. “What is it?” 

John stared at the headphones with his brow furrowed by a small, pensive frown. His mouth felt suddenly dry, and he swallowed. His throat stuck, forcing him to clear it with considerable difficulty. Wetting his lips, John finally spoke, his voice emerging as a rasp. “I heard him.”

Eyebrows rising, Sherlock sat upright, his body snapping with sudden intensity as his focus narrowed to John. “The Colonel?” 

John nodded. “Yeah,” he said roughly, still frowning at the laptop. “It was brief, but it was definitely him.” 

“Which recording?” Sherlock asked, already reaching for the laptop before Mycroft could speak. Setting it in his lap, Sherlock lifted the headphones and placed them delicately over his ears. The thick speakers crushed his curls against his temples, making John force back the inexplicable urge to smile. 

“This one.” John reached out and drifted a finger across the built-in trackpad, guiding the cursor over to the correct file. The laptop tipped slightly in Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock righted it with a little wiggle of his hips and a hand on the edge. John, ignoring the movement with pursed lips, tapped the correct file. Sitting back, he watched as Sherlock listened to the clip. 

His face was blank, carefully devoid of emotion until John assumed the speaking began. Slowly, Sherlock’s eyebrows rose before dropping into a frown that matched John’s. He listened for a moment longer, past the ending of the brief conversation with a perturbed expression lingering on his face. It was a while before he spoke. Tugging the headphones off and setting them on the laptop’s keyboard, he looked at John. “That’s him?” he asked, nodding toward the small computer still resting on his knees. 

John nodded, and Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” John replied, his tone steadied by the force of his conviction. “Definitely. It’s definitely him.” 

“Well,” Sherlock said slowly, his brow clearing. “That’s good, then.” He was suddenly brisk, moving the laptop and headphones to the coffee table before rising to his feet. “More tea, anyone?” he asked, casting a perfunctory glance around the sitting room. John and Mycroft both stared at him, John with a wary expression, and Mycroft with a sharp narrowing of his eyes. Sherlock said, far louder than was appropriate, “Splendid!” and stalked out of the room without waiting for a response. 

Bemused, John looked at Mycroft for clarity. But the older Holmes brother just stared blankly back at him. With a jittery feeling of nervousness sinking into his body, John rose and moved to follow Sherlock. 

He didn’t find him in the kitchen as expected, but just outside. The sliding glass door was open, admitting a hot wash of air that battled with the air-conditioned interior of the house. Sherlock stood on the patio with his back to John, facing out at the yard. There was a rigidity to his shoulders that kicked John’s confusion up another notch, pushing it sharply toward alarm. Stepping outside, John glanced into the kitchen, saw that Mycroft hadn’t followed him, and closed the door slowly. He moved to Sherlock’s side, tilting his head to try and get a glimpse of his face. 

Sherlock’s expression was blank, almost empty of emotion save for a tiny flicker of tension at the corners of his lips. 

“Sherlock?” There was no response. Pursing his lips and, studying the subtle clench of Sherlock’s jaw, John wondered how best to reach him. Though he felt they’d begun to grow closer to one another, John couldn’t deny that they were still virtually strangers. He didn’t know Sherlock well enough to gauge his reactions and divine their meanings. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to try.

“Sherlock,” he repeated, stepping closer. John hesitated before letting their fingers brush, his thumb drifting over the heel of Sherlock’s hand. It was a fleeting and indecisive touch, but it got results. Sherlock shivered at the graze of thumb over warm skin, seeming to come back to himself with a jolt. His eyes widened, lashes fluttering as he sucked in a noisy breath. His gaze sharpened and darted toward John, skating over his face and slipping down to the tenuous contact between their hands. 

John, taken aback by the intensity of Sherlock’s response, cleared his throat. Offering an awkward smile, he lifted his hand to cover his mouth, scratching at his eyebrow with an apologetic expression. “Sorry,” he managed in a gruff voice. Realizing just how close they were standing and remembering the crackle of energy he’d felt between them earlier in the yard, John took a small step back. 

Something small and fleeting passed through Sherlock’s eyes, making them gleam before they went dark and flat. John wondered at what emotion it was he’d just glimpsed but pushed his curiousity aside to focus on the present moment.

“You alright?” he asked, watching Sherlock’s face closely. 

Slowly, like a mask slipping into place, Sherlock’s facade reappeared. His lips stretched in a tight little smile. John felt uneasy just looking at it. 

“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock replied. His tone was sharp. Too sharp, betraying his response as a lie. 

John’s eyes narrowed. “Not sure I believe that.” A muscle flexed in his jaw, teeth coming together with a staccato click. “Something about that recording upset you—”

“I’m not _upset,”_ Sherlock interrupted in protest. 

“Yeah, okay,” John said, unwilling to take the bait. He sighed. “If you say so. Look, I just—”

Again, Sherlock spoke over him. “I’m _fine,_ John.” 

John felt something shift internally. Like a flip being switched, his nervous concern morphed into a burning frustration. Keeping his voice pitched low, hands curling into tense fists at his sides, John spoke slowly. Carefully. Choosing his words with due consideration. “You said there wouldn’t be any secrets between us.” 

A small muscle jumped in Sherlock’s cheek, but he stood perfectly still otherwise. All that moved was his eyes, darting over John’s face again. He didn’t speak, and John took that as his cue to continue.

“No more secrets,” he said, tone growing firmer as he warmed to the topic. “Full honesty. Right?” When Sherlock still didn’t answer, John’s chin lifted, just a bit. Just enough to harden his jawline and pull his shoulders back. “That’s what you said, Sherlock. Right over there.” He nodded toward the front of the house, just out of sight around the edge of the yard. “I came back for this. Came back for you and for me. I said I’d hold you to your vow, and I’m doing that. What you choose to do here, right now, Sherlock… Well, that’s up to you.” John’s expression hardened, jaw muscles clenching along with his teeth.

Sherlock watched him silently, his face no longer closed-off. Now, he looked intrigued, breathless and hanging off every one of John’s fervent words. 

The attention was startling in its intensity, and John shook off the urge to back down. “You decide, right now.” Stepping a little closer, just close enough to hear the air as it rushed out of Sherlock’s lungs in surprise, John lowered his voice. “Tell me, Sherlock. Are we doing this or not?”

Sherlock’s throat bobbed, tendons shifting in his neck as he swallowed. With the two of them standing so close together, the quiet sound was audible to John. 

“Doing what?” Sherlock asked in a rasp. “Be specific.” There was a slight quiver beneath his words and a subtle flush colouring the sun-kissed topography of his cheeks. Both worked together to turn Sherlock’s flat statement into a plea.

Tracking the rushing flow of blood beneath Sherlock’s skin, John replied, “Trusting one another. You’ve asked me to trust you. Repeatedly. And I have. I am — I _will_. I’ve decided that much.” John hesitated again before letting his arm slip forward,brushing Sherlock’s white-knuckled hands with two seeking fingers. “It’s your turn now, Sherlock. Either you trust me, or you don’t. If you do, then great. If not…” John let his voice trail off before stepping away. He went further this time, four steps back that took him closer to the sliding door. “If not, then I don’t know why I bothered to come back.” 

* * *

John’s words filtered through the fog of panic obscuring Sherlock’s mind. The thick, intangible sense of alarm that had settled upon him as he’d listened to the recording in the sitting room thinned, though it did not dissipate entirely. But it softened enough, leaving room to think again. 

Sherlock seized the clarity with both proverbial hands. “I trust you,” he said at once, stumbling over the words in his rush to reassure John. Sherlock couldn’t let John doubt his choices. John couldn’t be allowed to think he’d chosen wrong by returning to Sherlock. 

With two large strides, Sherlock closed the distance between them. He caught the way John tensed at his approach before forcibly relaxing his body. The sight of that, of John reminding himself that Sherlock wasn’t a threat, made Sherlock’s stomach flip. It made his heart race and his mouth burn dry and arid, settling the last of his blazing uncertainty. 

“I _do_ trust you,” he breathed, the statement firm. Resolute. Certain. “I do, John. And I’m sorry for making you doubt that. I meant what I said earlier. No are secrets. I was just… I was processing. Momentarily setback. Won’t happen again.” Sherlock closed his mouth hard on the end of the last word, cursing himself for sounding like he was trying to convince them both. In a way, he thought he might be. He’d heard the voice — _that voice_ — on the recording, and it had scrambled his brain. Sent him into a reactive surge of dread that forced him out of the room, seeking air and open space. It had pushed him away from John, and that couldn’t be allowed. Sherlock wouldn’t allow it, that space. He wouldn’t let anything come between them, not now. Not now that he had John, now that John had chosen him over his own freedom.

Not now that they were finally together and fighting on the same side. 

“Okay,” John said slowly. He sounded confused, his voice cautious. “Okay,” he repeated, looking up at Sherlock with a speculative expression. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear that. But I’m…” His eyes narrowed, searching Sherlock’s. “I’m not sure what happened.” 

_John was a saint,_ Sherlock thought. A glorious, wondrous, ever-patient and confused saint. Sherlock would never live up to being what John deserved, but he knew he would break himself in two just to try. 

The intensity of his own thoughts scared even him.

“Right.” Sherlock stepped back — reluctantly — and clasped his hands behind his back. Gaining space between them helped ease the manic edge of his mind. He could breathe a little easier, no longer struggling to think past the force of John’s larger-than-life presence. The urge to touch still lingered in his fingers and Sherlock worked them together into a knot. “Right,” he said again, tipping his head in a sharp nod. Despite the reprieve in his emotions, he felt like an oncoming storm, the fog rolling back over his thoughts and reducing his clarity once more. 

John’s expression shifted into one of wary concern, his eyes darkening with doubt. “Sherlock.” He hesitated, staring hard at Sherlock’s face. “Look, I know we don’t know one another that well, but I… Something’s wrong, yeah? I can see that much.” Tipping his head to one side, his gaze evaluating, John gently prompted, “Tell me what happened in there.” He pointed over his shoulder, back inside the house, toward the kitchen and the sitting room beyond. “Something about the recording got to you. What was it?” 

Sherlock found that he couldn’t reply right away. He took a deep breath before finally doing so, letting the rush of oxygen ground him. “Of course,” he said, close to a murmur. “Yes. My apologies.” Sherlock winced at the stiff formality in his reply. “I’m not good at this,” he admitted, feeling and hearing the sliver of helplessness that slipped into his voice. 

Though his words were vague, John seemed to understand. He tipped his head in a small nod, his expression encouraging. “That’s alright,” he said in a low voice, extending a quiet comfort that once again helped ease some of the panic clouding Sherlock’s mind. “Take your time.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded as well, cursing the jerkiness of his movements. “Right.” He turned and looked out at the yard again. He felt the urge to shake ripple through him, energy snapping and rushing over his skin like a breeze. He shook it off and released an unsteady breath. “I know him,” he finally said, still not looking at John. Staring out at the yard, watching the trees cast dappled shadows over the perfectly kept green grass, Sherlock frowned. “Well, I know _of_ him. The man you call the Colonel.” 

He saw John stiffen from the edge of his vision. It was a slow tension, rolling its way from the top of John’s head and down to his toes. Every muscle went tight and still. Hands curled into fists, shoulders shifted back, spine snapping to attention. 

“What?” John breathed. The question, paired with his rigid posture, broadcast his confusion. To Sherlock’s dismay, he glimpsed rising suspicion in John’s eyes. But John had said he trusted Sherlock, and it was clear that he was making an effort. As much as Sherlock might wish for that trust to be genuinely unconditional, he would take whatever he could get. 

“Not personally,” he said, finally turning to face John. Some of the stiffness went out of John. His hands flexed and settled, though his shoulders didn’t lower. “Only through what I know about the network. Even before Moriarty and I had our final stand, I knew of him. I just didn’t know he was called the Colonel.” Sherlock’s lips pursed, thoughtful. “Maybe the nickname came after Moriarty’s demise. A way to assume command without the name…” He trailed off, thinking it over.

John’s voice pulled him back before Sherlock could fade too deeply into his mind. “Sherlock,” he murmured, barely audible over the sound of a light breeze rustling the leaves overhead. “Stay with me.” 

_Always,_ Sherlock’s mind instinctively replied. He blinked at the unexpected thought, confused and caught off guard by the intensity with which he felt it. Brushing the feeling aside for the moment, Sherlock nodded. “The man you call the Colonel is a soldier. Or was, as you know. He is a marksman.”

Recognition dawned on John’s face. It faded into understanding, then into something that looked far too close to horror for Sherlock’s liking. “A sniper,” John said slowly as if tasting the word on his tongue. “You’re telling me he’s a sniper, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. “I am.” 

Some intangible response washed over John, turning his skin pale and a little grey at the edges. “What is his name?” he asked, in a voice that sounded suddenly strained. 

Noting John’s visibly visceral reaction, Sherlock didn’t draw out his response. He said simply, “Sebastian Moran.” 

John’s eyes closed. His lips parted, and Sherlock tracked the small motion with intrigued eyes. He watched a shaky breath escape John’s mouth, hearing it seconds later in the hot, heavy air between them. 

“I,” John began, speaking in a flat, empty tone, “was really hoping you weren’t going to say that.” 

* * *

_Sebastian Moran._ Of course John recognized the name. He hadn’t known the man, not personally, but he’d heard of him. In John's time, everyone who served for the British Army knew who Sebastian Moran was, or at least knew who he’d been once. He was a legend, almost a myth: no one handled a sniper rifle like Moran. Newer recruits called him Eagle-Eye. Older soldiers, their thoughts of glory long since worn into fatigue from multiple tours, called him something else. 

Rare. Talented. Gifted. 

Terrifying. 

Sherlock spoke that name and reminded John of Colonel Sebastian Moran. It pushed John back. Forced him into the battleground of his head and straight through into a flashback. The name unlocked the spaces John kept firmly closed, setting loose a kind of hailstorm through his memories. 

Still reeling from discovering the sheer depth of betrayal that had plagued him even after Afghanistan, John fell, all too easily, back into the past.

_Sand, stretching for miles. Far as the eye could see, there was sand dotted with scrub grass and the burnt-out husks of buildings. Arid, desert heat and the whistle of particulate-edged wind provided the background soundtrack to the unforgiving scenery. There was a breeze, hot and utterly devoid of moisture. It scoured John’s bare face with sand, drying out his skin and leaving his pores gasping for water._

_He was hunkered against a boulder. John felt the heat emanating off the sun-baked rock even through the thick, heavy fabric of his fatigues. There were other men, spread out about him. Some rested, sleeping with their helmets set over their faces, packs beneath their heads and fully suited in combat gear. Others cleaned their weapons, standard-issue rifles laid out across their laps. A few stared into the middle ground, eyes unfocused and brows creased. Many of those men were older, bodies weathered, their weary skin darkened by the sun._

_Unrelenting, that sun._

_John drank from a metal bottle, grimacing at the iron tang of the water. It had long since gone warm, but he swished it around his mouth despite the temperature. It left behind the taste of blood, and John only just managed to resist spitting his mouthful out into the sand. Water was precious. Even with plans to return to base within a fortnight, no soldier ever wasted water. You never knew what might happen: their return could be delayed. They could be ambushed. Caught and boxed in and cut off from friendly territory._

_John kept the water behind his lips and swallowed it down. The breeze — fetid and hot as it was, but still welcome — died down. It left behind a heavy quiet, broken only by the sounds of men and the faint buzzing of insects. Across from him, stretched out with his arms folded beneath his head, a combat nurse named Bill Murray shot a lazy smile at John._

_“What’re you grinning about?” John asked, trying to sound annoyed but knowing he failed. Bill Murray was one of those people who made it hard to be gruff. He was a man with bright brown eyes and a dark, round face, and he never seemed to take anything seriously. Despite his seemingly care-free personality, John knew Murray was an asset in a crisis. He’d worked alongside Murray more than once, both of them spattered up to the elbow with some poor sap’s blood. Every time, loss or win, Murray went to work with a grim expression and a gleam in his eye._

_There were far worse people John could have at his side in a pinch. Murray was a good man. A friend, a brother-in-arms. John knew he could rely on Murray like he was family — even more so, in fact. John had never really had a family he could count on. Murray — steady, kind, affable Murray — was an excellent surrogate for the brother John never had._

_“Just thinking,” Murray replied. He stretched out his long, thin legs a little further, digging the heels of his heavy combat boots into the sand._

_John stuffed the water bottle back into his pack. “Didn’t know you had the brains for that.”_

_“Har-har,” came the slick response, Murray kicking a burst of sand his way. John put up an arm in a half-hearted attempt to dodge the assault. He managed to block some of the sand, but not all. Instead of retaliating, John wiped the grains from his face and shot Murray the bird. He was tired from their long march to their current position, and Murray taking the piss was beyond John’s depleted energy._

_“Alright, spill,” he said with a weary smile. “What’re you thinking about, then?”_

_Murray tilted his head back, squinting up into the nearly-crystalline blue of the cloudless sky overhead. “You ever hear of Sebastian Moran?”_

“John?”

The sound of his name caught John’s focus, pulling him out of his memories like a dog on a lead. Following the familiar voice, he opened his eyes, blinking when he found Sherlock standing in front of him. A small breeze — warm, but not nearly as hot and arid as that John remembered from Afghanistan — tousled Sherlock’s dark curls and rippled the front of John’s thin shirt. 

There was confusion on Sherlock’s face, his angular, sharp features contorted by concern. “John, are you alright?”

Rather than answer, John closed his eyes. His legs felt shaky, the flashback turning them unsteady beneath him. With two coltish steps, he dropped into one of the patio chairs. Hand placed over his face, he took a slow breath and waited for his racing pulse to slow. His head felt like a jumble, mind awash with memories that kept trying to superimpose themselves over reality. 

Teeth clenched, John waited to open his eyes until the strange doubling effect passed. When it did, he looked up into Sherlock’s face and found him standing over the chair. He was watching John with a perplexed expression. 

“I don’t know what happened.” Sherlock sounded like he was admitting to something shameful. His lips tugged down at the corners, close to but not quite a pout. 

John offered a weak smile and sighed. “It’s called a flashback,” he replied. Rubbing his palms over the textured plastic arms of the chair, letting the sensation of skin over ridges ground him, John tipped his head back. “Afghanistan.” 

A flicker of understanding shone in Sherlock’s eyes. “A flashback,” he repeated, slowly, turning the words over on his tongue. “Do you… have them often?” The beginning of a question trailed off, Sherlock’s voice lilting subtly upward at the end. 

John sighed again and tapped his fingers against the chair’s arms. “Sometimes. Not as much as I did.” He looked away, Sherlock’s gaze suddenly too intense to meet. It felt like being flayed alive, that scrutiny too much to bear when John was in so vulnerable a state. 

Lost in thought for a moment, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, John came to a decision. It was quick but resolute and, when he looked back at Sherlock, he saw anticipation in Sherlock’s gaze. 

“I have PTSD,” John said. He hesitated, considered adding more but thought better of it when the understanding in Sherlock’s eyes spread to his face. His expression softened, and he sank slowly into the chair across from John’s.

“I suspected as much.” Folding his hands in his lap, his long legs crossed at the knee, Sherlock seemed to choose his words with care. “What you’ve been through — the things you’ve survived… It’s no surprise that such traumatic circumstances would leave you with more than physical scars.” 

John let the words sink in, taking a moment to make sense of them. He braced himself for the usual defensive reaction that other people’s pity usually garnered in him. It didn’t come, and John slowly relaxed again, surprised by his own response. But it made sense. Looking at Sherlock, John didn’t see anything that looked like pity. He didn’t see someone who judged him for who he was or what he’d been through. Instead, he saw only curiousity, openness, and an attempt to understand something Sherlock had never experienced.

In the face of a near stranger, John saw acceptance.

Picking up on some part of John’s complicated reaction, Sherlock tilted his head to the side and frowned. “What is it?” His lips pulled into a tense line, eyes narrowing with apprehension. “Did I say something wrong?” 

Surprised by the small smile that touched his lips, John shook his head. “No, not at all. You…” John took a deep breath, catching and holding Sherlock’s gaze. Interest clearly piqued by the direction attention, Sherlock sat forward, gifting John with the full force of his extraordinary focus. Tamping down on the smile, John said, “Not everyone responds kindly when I tell them that. And you…” He shrugged, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “You just take it all in stride. Like it’s fine. As if it’s no big deal.” With his eyes still locked on Sherlock’s, John blinked. “You just accept these parts of me like they’re… like they’re perfectly alright.” 

Sherlock stared at him. “They are,” he said slowly as if feeling his way through some invisible minefield. “Alright, that is.” He paused, squinting, eyes darting over John’s face like he was searching for something. “Of course I accept… you.” There was a small catch in Sherlock’s voice, breaking the sentence before the final word. 

Feeling a flicker of something warm spark in his chest, John ducked his head and looked away. The eye contact between them felt too much like a tangible thing, like a tether connecting them. It wasn’t something John could handle right then. “I know,” he said quietly, watching a bird pass over the yard, casting its shadow across the bright green lawn. “I know you do.” Clearing his throat, John forced his eyes back to Sherlock’s face. The expression he saw there was open and earnest, only the faintest uncertainty lingering at the edges of Sherlock’s parted lips. “I’m just saying that not everyone does.”

It was a moment before Sherlock replied. He looked at John for a long, silent spell, his gaze raking over John’s face. When he did speak, his lips curled in a slow, tentative smile. “Most people are idiots.” 

Stunned by the deadpan statement, John laughed. It was a genuine sound, quick and surprised, escaping before he could help it. Sherlock’s smile grew slightly in response, curving his mouth into something bright and pleased. 

“Yeah,” John said, feeling some of the shadow hanging over him begin to dissipate. “Yeah, I guess they are.” He cleared his throat, shook his head, and patted his hands against his thighs before standing. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” Casting a quick glance toward the kitchen and finding it empty, John looked down at Sherlock and saw he was watching John with a curious gleam in his eyes. “Lunch, then get back to it?” 

Sherlock wet his lips and nodded. As he rose to his feet, he asked, “Will you tell me about Moran?” 

Wincing as the name banished some of the lightness hanging in the air, John forced himself to nod. “Yes,” he said, pleased that he sounded only a little reluctant. “I’ll tell you all that I know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful [Ketty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettykika78/pseuds/kettykika78) made more amazing fan art for this fic. This time, she blessed us all with an image of John in his towel from chapter 22. As always, I am so grateful and stunned by her talent and her work. Thank you so much, Ketty! Please, go show her work some love! 


	28. Mutual Accountability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John share their stories. Mycroft outlines the plan for Portugal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist for this fic on Spotify. I'll add more songs as I go (my writing playlist for this fic is 15 hours long). 
> 
> You can listen [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0m3qtNo8t6HhyV7GBA84iL?si=4084c40ed7f6481f&nd=1) if you like!

Inside the house, they found the sitting room empty, Mycroft nowhere in sight. Rather than wonder at his disappearance, Sherlock focused on John. Over a simple lunch of cheese and tomato toasties, he listened to John’s recount of what he knew of the man called Sebastian Moran. Of the Colonel.

Seated at the dining table in the kitchen across from him, Sherlock brushed crumbs from his fingers and hung off of John’s every word.

“Everyone I served with knew about Moran. Even the new recruits. Bleeding green, the whole lot of them, but they knew of him. Moran was like a legend.” John’s brow creased, his expression shifting toward a grimace. “Or whatever you call a story about someone who went bad.”

“A warning?” Sherlock suggested. Leaning forward, he set an elbow on the table and dropped his chin into the cup of his hand. His other arm rested flat against the tabletop, fingers drumming out an idle rendition of Vivaldi’s third _Winter_ movement.

John’s eyes locked on the movement, tracking each point of contact between fingertip and wood. “Close enough,” he replied, his voice taking on a far-off quality. The distant-sounding edge of it made Sherlock tense, his fingers falling still as he wondered if John was slipping into another flashback.

But John shook his head, coming back to himself with the cessation of Sherlock’s tapping. His throat bobbed, and he continued. “Anyways. Whatever the right word is, we all knew of him. I first heard about him from a mate of mine. Bill Murray. He was a combat nurse.” A small smile touched John’s lips. Nostalgia softened his eyes, warming the dark blue to something deeper. Darker.

Sherlock stared, wondering what it felt like to be the cause of such a gentle expression. What did a man have to do to inspire that look on John Watson’s face? Sherlock hoped for the chance to find out for himself.

John was speaking again, and Sherlock forced himself to focus.

“There was always a bit of mystery about Moran. So many stories, it was hard to tell what was real and what was utter shite. Surprisingly, war has its boring moments, and gossip flows easily when there’s nothing to do but talk.” The soft, nostalgic look on John’s face faded into a frown. “But what I know for sure is this.” John held up a hand, his fingers spread. Sherlock blinked as John folded his thumb into his palm. “Moran was the best shot out of anyone. Better than me, and I’m nothing to laugh at. It’s not bragging. It’s the truth.” There was nothing but honesty in John’s voice — no bragging bravado or smug twist of lips. His marksmanship was a fact, and he stated it as one. “But still, Moran was better than I am.” John’s index finger dropped. “Two, he was — he _is_ ruthless. If he was caught in a firefight, he didn’t stop until he and his men were the only ones left standing. Sometimes not even then.” John’s eyes darkened, a muscle twitching in his cheek.

Sherlock blinked. “You mean…?” He found he couldn’t finish the question, but John seemed to understand. He pursed his lips and nodded.

“Yes,” John said. “Even if holding ground meant losing his own men, Moran didn’t back down. Some called it bravery.”

Comprehension made Sherlock narrow his eyes. “And you?”

The tight grooves at the edges of John’s mouth deepened, pulling his jaw taut. “I call that bloodlust. Unnecessary violence and risk. Senseless and moronic. We’re not out here to wipe everyone off the planet who might possibly turn a gun on us. We’re meant to serve, to protect, to fight for a difference.”

Sherlock didn’t miss the way John said _here_ and _we_ , as if he were back out there all over again. Like he was _still_ out there — like Afghanistan was his current reality and not his history.

But John seemed to shake himself free of the clinging past, noting, “At least, that’s what I thought at the time. Turns out it’s all that Queen and Country stuff is a crock of shit, but still. Doesn’t mean you put your men’s lives — men who are trusting you to get them back out in one piece — on the line like that.”

Sherlock tipped his head in a small nod, considering the words. He made a quiet sound of agreement, and John took that as his cue to continue.

Dropping his middle finger into his palm, John said, “Three. He’s mad. I’d go so far as to call him feral. I only saw him a few times myself, never spoke to him, but he always looked… Christ, Sherlock, he _looked_ wild. All dead-eyed and coiled energy like a shark.” John shook his head, brows drawing together. “Whenever I did see him, all I could think was, there’s something off about that one. I wasn’t alone in thinking it either. Bill Murray said the same. And Bill was a really easy-going guy. The kind of guy that laughed at everything, no matter how bloody stupid it was. But Moran…” Another head shake, this one aborted by John rubbing a hand over his face. His palm rasped against the stubble-turned-beard covering his cheeks and jaw, the sound oddly loud in the quiet kitchen. “Moran shook him just as bad as he shook me.”

Sherlock eyed the last two remaining fingers. “Is there more?”

A sigh whistled out through John’s teeth. “Yeah,” he muttered, his lips thinning into a line. “Two things. One, he got away with a lot. I mean, mad things, Sherlock. I mentioned he regularly walked his men into certain death, but there were other incidents. Worse things. I don’t know what was true and what was hearsay, but I know there was a bit of truth in almost all the stories I heard. And Moran got away with most of it. The bastard got away with… awful stuff.” John’s voice turned harsh. His hand slapped flat down on the table, startling them both. “Now that I know about Moriarty, about the hold he had out there, it makes sense. But then…” Some of the anger, sudden and flaring, seemed to drain away. John’s shoulders slumped. “But I guess he did something that not even Moriarty’s influence could explain away. He was discharged.” John wiggled his pinky, the last finger still standing before pressing it flat against his palm with the others. “They sent him away. There was some talk about it, but I was shot not long after, and camp gossip didn’t mean much to me by then.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, mulling over John’s words. “Everything you’ve said fits with what little I know,” he mused, tapping a finger to his chin. “I assumed Moran had military training. It was the only obvious explanation for his weapon prowess.”

John laid both of his hands flat on the table, side by side. The left twitched, and he folded it into a fist with a small frown. “You had a run-in with him?”

“Not as such. Not… directly,” Sherlock said, watching the subtle tremours shivering through John’s hand. “You know some of this already, but there was a case. Several. Moriarty created hostages by kidnapping civilians and covering them with enough semtex to level a city block.” He didn’t miss the quick shudder that worked its way down John’s body and softened his voice in silent sympathy. “With each hostage came a case. If I didn’t solve it in time, they would die.”

“Bloody hell,” John breathed. His eyes searched Sherlock’s face, open and warmed by faint admiration. “Not sure I could handle that kind of stress.”

Sherlock’s snort was quiet but kind. “I beg to differ. I’m sure you would have risen to the task admirably.” He looked up, caught the small smile on John’s lips and offered a smaller one of his own before sobering. “I should have been stressed. In a way, I was. But I was also…” Sherlock hesitated, the words resting on his tongue as he held them back. Slowly, swallowing, he released them. “At the time, I enjoyed it.” Wincing, he rushed on before John could inflict judgement. “I was bored, as you know, and it was a challenge. Finally, there was someone who wanted to play. Someone interesting.” This time, the wince was closer to a flinch. “I was arrogant back then. A… a different man.” Sherlock’s tongue skated along his bottom lip, his nervous expression tentative, reluctant. “I didn’t know what Moriarty was yet. I thought I’d found someone… like me. Someone who… who understood the boredom.” Sherlock’s words faded, his voice dying away. Inside, he felt hollow, shame rushing in to fill the void.

He’d thought himself brilliant, then. And he had been, taking everything Moriarty gave him and turning the tables with quick wit and flashing deductions. Sherlock had enjoyed himself immensely, and that made looking back over that time just that much harder. He looked at the past, saw who he’d been then, and balked. The worst of it was Sherlock hadn’t even realized how easily Moriarty could twist him into a monster. He’d disregarded his sense of justice for some shiny new problem.

Sherlock bit back the self-loathing rising in his throat and tried not to choke on the bitter taste.

It was a long while before John spoke. He did slowly, his words devoid of emotion, empty of anything that might have made Sherlock feel worse than he already did. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock looked up from staring at the table. What he saw made him start and stare, stunned by the easy acceptance in John’s expression. In his dark eyes, Sherlock didn’t see anger or judgement. He saw… understanding.  _Of course,_ he thought, his mouth suddenly dry. John had been through the trenches himself, both literally and metaphorically. He’d turned to a life that darkened the hearts of lesser men. Yet here he was, still resilient and clawing his way upward. If anyone could understand Sherlock’s shame, his driving need to change, it was John.

“I lost one,” Sherlock said, struggling with the memory. “Not my fault, really, but still. She was an elderly woman. Blind. Moriarty, he communicated with the other hostages through a pager, made them read his instructions to me from it. But she was blind, and he had to improvise. He fed her the lines through an earpiece. He put himself in the firing line. Let someone hear him.” Sherlock took a breath and closed his eyes. His words emerged on a long exhale, breathy and strained. “She started to describe him to me. Told me about his voice.” Sherlock winced. “The bomb detonated while we were speaking. The blast levelled an entire block of flats.”

John breathed out a rough curse, “Jesus Christ.”

Sherlock nodded, opening his eyes. “It was… a tragedy. But even that wasn’t enough to stop me. I kept playing the game. At the time, I told myself I didn’t have a choice. If I didn’t play along, people would die.” Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip, the mild pain helping centre his thoughts. “I was lying to myself. I enjoyed it. I saw the old woman’s death as a loss, a blow to my ego and nothing more. It wasn’t until I was on the roof with him, at the end of it all, that I realized what I’d become. I let him turn me into his reflection. Standing there, knowing I had no way out but to die — or to make Moriarty believe I had — I finally saw what he was. Finally realized that I’d been beaten well before I ever set foot on that roof. Long before, I think, he smeared my name, and everyone denounced my life’s work as fraudulent.” Sherlock’s hands curled into fists. Across the table, John’s twitched, a mirror-image with sun-damaged skin and unfamiliar scars. “You see, that’s why it was so easy for Moriarty to ruin me. Because I let myself play the game and turned my back on my humanity. It was easy for everyone to believe the lies because there was just enough truth to them. I finally saw that, there on the roof of Bart’s Hospital. But it didn’t matter. I saw it far too late.”

Sherlock clicked his mouth shut, ending the quiet rant. The kitchen was quiet, the only sounds the cadences of their breathing and the noise of the world moving on beyond the glass door. Sherlock watched John’s hands tighten, clenching tighter and tighter until they released like an explosion, his fingers pushing out and knuckles popping. He released his own fists as well, echoing the long, loud exhale John sighed into the air between them. Sherlock felt his muscles loosen and resisted the urge to sag.

“And Moran?” John asked, gently prompting. “How did he fit into all of that?”

Sherlock dragged a finger over the table, tracing the natural whorls of the polished wood. At one time, the table had been a tree, probably in some far-off forest that no longer existed, unimaginably vast. Gone.

Sherlock flattened his palm against a sanded-down knot and narrowed his eyes. “One of the hostages was placed on a busy street with a sniper ready to set him off if I failed. In our final face-off, Moriarty threatened the people in my life. He said he had people on standby who would take the shot unless they saw me fall. I’d already begun to suspect that there might be one man behind the sniper threats, and it didn’t take Mycroft long to confirm it. Sebastian Moran.” Sherlock slipped his hands off the table and into his lap, his expression pensive. “When I first read his file, I felt sick. It was just as you said, John. There’s something off about him. His past is… stained, but he’s not mad. Quite the contrary.” Sitting up, Sherlock fixed John with a sharp look, hoping to emphasize the importance of his words. “Moran is perfectly sane. And that makes what he does that much worse. He has no remorse. No conscience. And now, knowing that he’s the man who directed your movements for so many years… Knowing that he’s the man on our trail, it means we have to be that much more careful.” Sherlock swallowed, battling with the rising fear that what he had to say next might drive John away. It might make him change his mind and flee after all. If that happened, Sherlock wasn’t sure what he’d do. Possibly slump over the table and give up, here and now. He wouldn’t know until he said it and saw John’s reaction.

To his surprise, John beat him to the punch.

“You believe he was the one who took over after Moriarty died?” John didn’t wait for a response. He just looked at Sherlock’s grim expression and nodded. “Alright.” Fitting his hands together, John cracked his knuckles and tilted his head to the side, working a kink from his neck. His back straightened, and he met Sherlock’s intent gaze. “He’s the one we have to take out, yeah?” A gleam flickered to life in John’s eyes, somehow simultaneously bright and dark. It lit up John’s face and deepened the shadows beneath his eyes.

It made Sherlock sit up straighter and pay close attention. “Yes,” he replied, his mouth dry.

John dipped his head in another nod. His jaw clenched, shoulders pulling back. He looked like the soldier again, the mercenary, a man who dealt in death. Steady and fearsome, and entirely on Sherlock’s side. There was a hard glint in his eyes, reminding Sherlock of steel.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

* * *

Sharing some of his past — the one before his mercenary life — and hearing Sherlock’s story made John feel strangely centred. He felt like something had shifted between them. Five days wasn’t a long time and nowhere near long enough to really know someone, but John felt like he was beginning to know Sherlock. Maybe he didn’t yet fully understand him, but he was starting to. His motivations, his past and his reasons for being who he was, it was all beginning to make sense. At least, John thought it was.

With his proclamation hanging in the air between them, John watched a series of emotions flicker over Sherlock’s face. He identified surprise, confusion, wariness, doubt, then a slow, lingering acceptance. He thought he saw something else, something that looked a little to John like excitement, but he couldn’t be sure. Sherlock’s face cleared, his hands settling together on top of the table.

“Yes,” Sherlock said in a level tone that sounded suddenly formal. “That is what we will do. We will… we will do that.” Sherlock swallowed, his words faltering. “Together,” he added, and the facade cracked, revealing the man John was starting to catch glimpses of more and more. The man beneath the mask, the one John wanted to know.

The one he was starting to think of as his Sherlock. It was an alarming thought and possibly inaccurate, but John couldn’t seem to shake the feeling.

Worried about what his own expression must show, John tried to school his face into something blank. Sherlock’s eyes skated over him, and John wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

“Right,” he said, pushing away from the table and standing. “So. Portugal.” Now that he was on his feet, John had no idea what to do with himself. Sherlock remained sitting, looking up at him with an expectant, searching gaze.

Rather than let Sherlock dissect him with his eyes, John grabbed their plates off the table and carried them to the sink. He busied himself with tidying the small mess from lunch, thankful for something to keep his hands busy. But the dishes were done too soon, and even though John dried and put them away, he was forced to admit he had nothing left to clean.

He dried his hands, hung up the dishcloth, and turned back to Sherlock. He startled, surprised to find Sherlock no longer seated at the table. He’d moved while John was doing the washing up and now stood a little more than a metre away. Hip propped against the edge of the counter with his at his sides, Sherlock looked at John with calculating eyes.

Slowly, as John blinked and stared back at him, Sherlock frowned. “What I told you,” he began, faltering and picking the sentence up again with a slight waver in his voice. “You’re not… It didn’t…” Sherlock trailed off, his frown deepening.

John, listening to him struggle, seeing the effort in Sherlock’s tense face, remembered standing on the patio with him. In his mind, he heard Sherlock’s admission: _I’m not good at this._ There'd been a flicker of fear in his eyes, and John had softened at once. He did it again. His feet, as if of their own accord, carried him forward. The distance closed between them, and Sherlock’s eyes widened when John stopped close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

“No, it didn’t scare me off,” John said quietly, watching visible relief spread over Sherlock’s face. “I said I would trust you. You’re making an effort here, and so am I.” John waited, noting how the relief remained even as Sherlock’s expression changed to one of confused anticipation. “I won’t judge you for your past, just as I know you don’t judge me for mine. It’s like you said, Sherlock. You were a different person then. You’ve changed — you _are_ changing. We both are. And that…” John looked away, frowning at the weight he felt in his own words. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze again. If he did, John might do something stupid. He might make promises he couldn’t keep or give voice to platitudes that Sherlock would only scoff at.

He might kiss him. After only five days together — five days of adrenaline and insanity, but five days nonetheless— John didn’t think that was wise.

Exhaling slowly, he forced back the urge to be an idiot and met Sherlock’s eyes. “If you say you’re a different man than you were back then, I believe you.”

Sherlock appeared to have frozen. He was still leaning against the counter, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. Then, slowly, Sherlock blinked. He straightened, his shoulders falling back. “I’m a different man,” he whispered, so soft that John had a hard time hearing him, even standing as close as they were.

“I believe you,” John repeated, his own voice hardly more than a breath.

“You are, too,” Sherlock said, catching John off-guard.

Blinking, confused, John asked, “I’m what?”

Sherlock’s gaze was keen, unrelenting and rooting John in place. “A changed man.”

_I’m not,_ John thought, expecting to feel a surge of panic, _I’m really not._ But the reaction never materialized. Unlike the other times that Sherlock had tried to tell John that he was a different man — maybe even a better one — John didn’t feel the urge to deny it. He didn’t want to shout it down or snap at Sherlock to shut his mouth. For once, John tried to believe it. For once, he felt like he could accept the words. In coming back that morning, by choosing to return to Sherlock and put something else — _someone_ else — ahead of his own needs, John had proven himself capable of change. It was still new, still fresh, still achingly delicate. But the possibility was there.

For once, John didn’t want to stomp out that hint of fire. He wanted to bend down and cup his hands around it. Keep it safe from errant wind and feed slow oxygen into the spark until it grew. Until it flared and built into an inferno: a funeral pyre for the sad, lonely man John had let himself become.

A small, tentative smile spread over John’s lips. He saw the moment Sherlock noticed it, the light that lit up his eyes, and had to look away. But John’s smile grew, and he shook his head with a helpless laugh.

“What’s that for?” Sherlock asked, still smiling but beginning to appear uncertain.

John shook his head again. “Just… it’s nothing. This is all so ridiculous.” At Sherlock’s deepening confusion, John added, “Crime networks, snipers, blackmail…” He closed his eyes with a sigh and another small laugh. “God, when did my life become a cheesy crime novel?”

To his surprise, Sherlock let out a soft chuckle of his own. “It’s always been a cheesy crime novel, John. You just failed to notice.”

Snorting, John stepped away. He had to force himself to do so, finding the warmth of Sherlock’s body, his smile and warm laugh, far too alluring in such close quarters. “If you say so,” John said, imparting one last cheeky comment before growing sombre. It was well and good that he did, as John heard the front door open, and Mycroft appeared in the kitchen shortly after.

“I appear to have missed out on some kind of joke,” Mycroft said in a dry voice. His arms were full of files and the laptop from the sitting room. He looked between them with a raised eyebrow.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, turning toward his brother. The smile on his face, still lingering, slipped away, though a faded glint of amusement remained in his eyes. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t be back.”

“I went to fetch more files,” Mycroft said, moving further into the room. He set a stack of folders on the counter and eyed them both, his gaze flitting between Sherlock to John. His eyes narrowed, considering, then softened. To John’s surprise, Sherlock’s brother tilted his chin in a small, approving nod.

John half-wondered if he’d imagined it, as it was gone the next second, and Mycroft was once again all business.

“I took the liberty of listening to the audio file you both reacted so strongly to. Like Captain Watson, I, too, recognized the voice.” Reaching out, Mycroft drummed his fingers against the pile of folders. “This is everything I have on Sebastian Moran.”

John regarded the stack with a rising sense of exhaustion. “I suppose we should get started, then,” he said, blowing out a heavy sigh. Rather than wait for a reply from the brothers, he turned away. “I’ll fill the kettle.”

* * *

John wasn’t going anywhere. The realization was almost enough to ease Sherlock’s fear of failure. Before, he had despaired at the possibility of never regaining his life. Now, knowing that John would be at his side, he didn’t feel nearly so lost. Finally, John was willing to trust him. Sherlock didn’t have to ask that he do so, not anymore. Now, John trusted him so long as Sherlock returned the favour.

That was proving to be far easier than Sherlock had anticipated.

Mycroft filled them in on what he knew about Moran, which was little, much of it repeating what John and Sherlock had already shared with each other. Sherlock tried to focus. The effort was a battle of wills, both of them his own. One was his brain, the rational side of him, telling him to pay attention to the task at hand and the hurdles ahead. The other voice belonged to a part of him Sherlock had long thought dead.

After years of silence, Sherlock’s heart spoke up. It told him to hell with the plans and to hell with the danger ahead. It told him to look and to listen, to notice and read what he saw in John. And Sherlock, caught between the two, his head and heart, found himself lost. Torn. He tried to listen to both and ended up confused instead. His heart was trying to tell him something, and Sherlock, with all his intelligence, couldn’t make head or tail of it.

With a muddled mind, he turned his attention to Mycroft. Safer ground.

His brother was looking at his laptop. “It’s not possible to fly directly from Gibraltar to Portugal, so you’ll have to travel to Spain first,” he said.

“Where in Spain?” John asked, his voice drawing Sherlock further away from his thoughts and deeper into the conversation.

“Málaga,” Mycroft replied, tapping at the keyboard. He turned the laptop around, showing them the map he’d pulled up on the screen. “You’ll take a helicopter from Gibraltar to the airport there. From Málaga, it’s a one-and-a-half-hour flight to Lisbon. Your tickets have already been purchased.”

Sherlock frowned, his mind momentarily cleared of its complex, emotional confusion. “How do we get to Cascais?” he asked, squinting at his brother over the laptop.

“You will take the bus,” Mycroft replied, and Sherlock groaned.

“You can’t send a car?” Sherlock felt little enthusiasm for the idea of more bus travel after the long haul in Morocco.

“You know I have to limit my involvement,” Mycroft snapped, his voice a stern reprimand. John looked on with slight amusement, which Sherlock ignored. Rather than gripe further about once more having to resort to public transport — the comfort of the safe house had clearly spoiled him — Sherlock subsided.

“Fine,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. John seemed unperturbed by the plan, which made Sherlock wish he’d kept his mouth shut. It wouldn’t do to have John thinking him less than a road-hardened man, just as John was himself.

“The bus is fine,” he said. To Sherlock’s surprise, John flashed him a brief smile before turning back to Mycroft. “What about lodgings?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of booking two hotel rooms in Cascais for three days. I can extend it if necessary, but I don’t anticipate you having to spend more time than that.” Mycroft spun the laptop around until it faced him once more, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “The rooms are adjoining. It’s nothing fancy, but the hotel is in a well-travelled public place, with high reviews for privacy and tourist safety. If anyone ambushes your rooms, they’ll have to work on it.”

John looked amused by the very suggestion. “Or not give a shit about an audience.”

Mycroft’s eyes flickered toward him over the laptop. “I’m not God, Captain Watson. There is only so much that even I can manage.”

John snorted. “Can’t say I’m not thankful for small mercies.”

Mycroft bared his teeth in a harsh smile.

“When do we leave?” Sherlock asked, wondering how much longer he could take stagnating in the safe house.

“Day after tomorrow,” Mycroft replied.

“Thank god,” John muttered, and the conversation moved on. Mycroft noted their travel times and sent the itinerary to both of their new phones, John’s now sim-card enabled and placed on the table before him. John fiddled with the device, Sherlock watching him turn the phone over and over in his short, compact fingers as Mycroft filled them in on the plan for Cascais.

“My people think they’ve narrowed down the location of the business the traffickers are using as a front to these coordinates.” He sent them off to both their phones, making them buzz and ping in response.

Opening the airdropped location, Sherlock pulled up the map and zoomed in. He frowned. “A shipyard?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Given the various chatter and coded conversations we’ve managed to intercept, it seems like the most likely choice.”

Seated on Sherlock’s left, John stuck his tongue between his lips and tilted his head. “Two-storey building with too many windows in a big empty yard.” His forehead creased, eyelids dropping to half-mast as he looked up and met Sherlock’s gaze. “I don’t like it.” Jiggling the phone, John shook his head. “Sounds like a trap to me. All that open space? We’ll be sitting ducks.”

“I don’t disagree, Captain,” Mycroft said in surprisingly easy agreement. “But if you and Sherlock have any hope of shutting down the drug trafficking operation in the area, that is the place to do it.”

John’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I still don’t like it.”

“Didn’t expect you would,” Mycroft replied in a clipped tone. “But rest assured. I do not plan to send you in without weighing the odds in your favour any way that I can.”

Eyes darting up from the phone, John frowned again. “And how will you do that?”

“Weapons, Captain Watson.”

John tensed. “I have guns,” he said slowly, but Mycroft shook his head.

Sherlock looked on in interest, watching the exchange unfold before him.

“I am aware, Captain. I know you are both familiar and well trained with them,” Mycroft said in evident agreement. “But they may not be enough. I think something with a little more firepower might be necessary. Just in case I am sending you both into a trap.”

John wet his lips, interest flickering in his dark eyes. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

The smile Mycroft offered was small but undeniably self-satisfied. He typed on the laptop for a moment, and John’s phone pinged again. “Open the link, Doctor Watson. Let me know what you think might be of use to you, and I’ll see what I can arrange.”

“What do you…,” John began, tapping the screen. Whatever else he’d planned to say died in his throat, his eyes widening.

Sherlock, annoyed at being left out of the loop, leaned over and peered at the phone. He saw pictures of vests and ammunition boxes and frowned. “What is this?” he asked, glancing at Mycroft. “What did he send you?”

“A catalogue,” John said, sounding suddenly breathless. Alarmed by the strained voice, Sherlock looked at John's face, expecting to find panic or something worse there. But John just appeared stunned. His gaze was almost reverent, something dark and deadly gleaming in his eyes. “For military-grade gear.” His gaze shifted to Sherlock’s, the spark of excitement brightening his face. “And weapons.”

“But,” Sherlock’s attention snapped to Mycroft again, a scowl twisting his features, “John isn’t MI6. How can you offer these weapons to someone outside your employment?” His eyes narrowed, jaw clenching. Sherlock automatically leaned closer to John, inspired by his strange, new-found protective instinct. “What kind of trick are you trying to pull?”

Mycroft lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No tricks, Sherlock.” His smile was far too easy for Sherlock to relax. “Captain Watson said earlier that he would accept a contract hire. I am merely taking him up on his own offer.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock looked over at John again, who lifted his gaze reluctantly from the digital catalogue in his hand. “John? Are you okay with that?”

If John was surprised by the consideration, he didn’t show it. He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “If it gets us moving forward and means I can play with some of these toys, then I’m in.”

Perturbed by John’s willing agreement and his brother’s guileless expression, Sherlock slumped back into his chair with a huff. “Fine,” he snapped, irked by them both. He received two indulgent smiles, neither of which did anything good for his mood.

The conversation turned toward specifics. The three of them whiled the day away with planning, and the bright sunlight of noon faded into evening before Mycroft finally looked pleased with what they’d covered. Pushing away from the table and closing the laptop with a resolute click, Mycroft indulged in a rare and genuine smile. “I think that’s enough for today,” he said, collecting the folders into a neat pile. “While I had my reservations, I am pleased to admit that you both work well together. I admit that I had my doubts.”

The compliment surprised Sherlock into looking up. Sitting next to John, having pulled his chair around to better read over John’s shoulder as they perused a file on Cascais, he narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Good for you,” he snapped, piqued by the smugness radiating from Mycroft. “I never had any. The sooner we’re both away from you, the better.” Sherlock didn’t bother to check if John agreed. John’s quiet snort of wry amusement was enough for him.

“Charming,” Mycroft said dryly, tucking the laptop and files into his arms. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I _do_ have a day job.”

“As if you’d ever let us forget,” Sherlock called after his retreating back. The front door opened and closed without a response from Mycroft, leaving him alone in the kitchen — and the house — with John.

“Sibling rivalry, huh?” John said, earning himself a sour glare from Sherlock. But John was looking at his phone, scrolling through the catalogue. He didn’t look up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but there was a small smile on his lips, softening his words.

“What about it?” Sherlock griped. He felt restless. His body was lit up with pent-up energy that had no outlet now that his brother had left without engaging him in a much-needed verbal sparring match. John was hardly a suitable replacement. He seemed far more likely to knock Sherlock to the ground and win the fight with brute force than cutting words. And while Sherlock didn’t want to fight with John, being tackled by him didn’t sound as terrible as Sherlock thought it should.

He swallowed and pursed his lips.

John was shaking his head. “Nothing. It just seems so ordinary when you two are, you know.” He finally looked up from his phone and waved his hand in a vague gesture. “Well, the way you are.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The frustrating phenomena of sibling dynamics are hardly beyond me, John.” He pushed his chair back and stretched his legs out beneath the table, hoping to release some of the tension built up in his body. It wasn’t enough, and Sherlock found himself thinking wistfully of a run. He wasn’t much of one for physical exertion outside of what was necessary for a case, but being cooped up in the safe house for two straight days was starting to eat away at him.

“Hey, I’ve got a sister, remember?” John said, catching Sherlock’s attention as he stood. “You don’t have to remind me.” He stretched, yawning with his arms reaching toward the ceiling. They fell back to his sides again, and John glanced toward the kitchen before looking at Sherlock. “Are you hungry?” Sherlock shook his head, and John tapped a hand against the table with a nod. “Alright, good, me neither. I’m going for a shower.” He offered a smile that turned apologetic. “Didn’t exactly have the chance for one this morning.”

At the reminder of John’s almost-disappearance, Sherlock sobered. He plummeted back to earth, his momentary energy expended by the fall. “Right,” he replied, his voice suddenly gruff. “That’s… that’s fine.” Swallowing, he tipped his head toward his laptop, sitting closed on the table. “I might work a bit more. Do some research on Cascais.”

“Sure,” John said a little too quickly. He lingered next to the table, and an edge of uncertainty hummed in the air between them. “Look, Sherlock,” John began, catching Sherlock’s interest with his hesitant tone. “About earlier, this morning. In… in the yard.” John paused again and seemed to falter under Sherlock’s intent gaze. He shifted from one foot to the other before shaking his head. Breathing out a long, heavy sigh, John offered a strained smile. “Actually, nevermind. Uh. I’ll just leave you to it, then.” But he didn’t move for a moment. Instead, he stood with his eyes skating over Sherlock’s face, alighting but not quite settling. Searching.

It looked like John wanted to say something more, his lips parting as if in preparation for words. But, in the end, he just smiled again — a touch nervously — and left the kitchen.

Sherlock listened to John’s fading footsteps and frowned. He heard John climb the stairs, holding his breath until the tell-tale sound of the pipes clanked behind the walls a few minutes later.

Letting his breath out in a rush, Sherlock tugged the laptop closer. He waited for it to boot up before entering the proper codes that let him access the browser. But then, with the cursor blinking on the screen before him, he found himself unable to focus. His mind was racing, parsing over the events of the day. There were many, and there was much to consider.

He recalled his shock and dismay at waking up to find John had left and his amazement when he returned. The sense of relief that followed, and the breathless, electric almost-moment between them in the yard. Sherlock remembered how John had looked at his mouth and how they’d breathed each other’s air. Something similar had happened twice more, once on the patio and again in the kitchen. It was like John had seen something in him and answered it like a beckoning call, only to retreat every time.

Eyes closed, listening to the sound of John’s shower upstairs, Sherlock frowned. He’d never been so distracted by another person before. Not even Moriarty had managed to commandeer Sherlock’s thought processes so completely with all his apparent brilliance and cruel cunning. John had done it right from the start and hadn’t stopped. Now, he could derail Sherlock’s mind with no more than a look. A word. A quiet breath into the air shared between them.

Sherlock forced his eyes open with a shiver. There was a path set before them, before he and John both, and it wasn’t an easy one. It stretched far ahead, marked by unseen dangers and unknown pitfalls. If Sherlock let himself become distracted, he risked missing those risks. His distraction could cost him not only his own life but John’s as well. That would be unacceptable.

Somehow, Sherlock thought denying why he was distracted was just as unacceptable. Ignoring how he felt — what he was _beginning_ to feel — was as impossible as trying to breathe water. Try as he might, Sherlock knew he would do nothing but drown with the first exhale, and the idea of turning his back on what was developing between himself and John felt like that. Like struggling to breathe. This thing growing between them was like turning away from the shore and swimming deeper out to sea. It was like an entirely different kind of drowning.

Despite his reservations, his fears and uncertainties, Sherlock wanted to take the plunge. He wanted to dive in and lose himself in the waters of John Watson. He no longer wished to be the desert any longer. Sherlock wanted the drought that hung heavy over his life to end. No longer did he want to be the barren lands, no longer did Sherlock wish to remain the sandpaper-man.

_Sink or swim,_ said the often-ignored voice of Sherlock’s heart. _Sink or swim._

His eyes flashed open, and Sherlock blinked at the far wall. The house was silent once more, John’s shower finished. He checked the time, realizing he’d been lost in his head for nearly an hour. Rising to his feet, Sherlock shut the laptop and tucked it under his arm. He moved into the hallway, hesitating at the bottom of the steps, bottom lip caught beneath his teeth. He felt like something was waiting. Some unnamed thing that made the air heavy and made the fine hairs rise all over his body. The space around him felt charged, like the world before a thunderstorm. It felt like it was now or never — like Sherlock must make a decision this instant.

But what decision? His mind was a mess, brain clashing with heart, neither making sense. What was it John had said to him outside, on the patio?

_You decide, right now. Tell me, Sherlock. Are we doing this or not?_

After a moment of thought, Sherlock knew his answer.

Yes. Yes, he and John were doing this. Whatever this was, it had to happen. This was bigger than the two of them, bigger than their alliance, more crucial than shared trust. There was… something here. Whatever that something was, Sherlock wanted it. He was ready. Ready to step forward into the unknown and breathe water.

With the same reverence shown by a man making a pilgrimage, Sherlock climbed the stairs. There were only twelve, and he reached the second floor far too quickly. There, he stood outside of John’s bedroom door. It was cracked open, just enough to seem inviting, but not nearly enough to allow him to see inside. His heart was racing, his mouth dried by the breath rushing loudly from his parted lips.

Pulling in a breath, deep and meant to steady his nerves, Sherlock reached out. His fingertips brushed wood, and he slowly pushed the door open. Stepping forward, Sherlock was ready to speak, prepared to explain himself for the intrusion.

“John, I—” The rest of Sherlock’s planned words died unspoken on his lips.

Instead of finding John awake and startled by Sherlock’s entrance, Sherlock found him asleep. Curled on his side in the bed, John lay facing the door. There was no doubt that John always slept near the door in Sherlock's mind, and seeing him here, like this, made sense. PTSD, John had said. The instincts of the soldier, paired with a lifetime of watchfulness ingrained by trauma.

Of course John slept facing the door. It was the only rational possibility. 

Standing in the doorway, Sherlock let himself linger. He watched the steady rise and fall of John’s chest and listened to the gentle sound of his breath. John slept beneath nothing but the top sheet, the duvet pushed to the floor. The heat of the day remained, its presence persistent despite the air conditioning. Sherlock’s curls clung to the back of his neck, and he resisted the urge to push them back.

The bedroom window was open, and the faint evening songs of birds and the drone of insects drifted through the screen.

Sherlock stood and watched, rooted in place. He saw that John was shirtless, the sheet tugged down to his hips. If he wore bottoms beneath, Sherlock couldn’t tell. His eyes wandered with only a faint twinge of guilt for the uninvited scrutiny. He traced the shapes of John’s scars — no longer so unfamiliar, but still a shock — with his gaze and felt his chest tighten in response.

John shifted in his sleep, and Sherlock stiffened. But John settled again, though his brow remained furrowed, and his lips parted around a heavy breath. It didn’t sound like a sigh of release, but rather one of tension. John twitched, hands clenching into fists around the bottom sheet.

A nightmare. Standing in the door, Sherlock hesitated. Should he do something? Provide comfort? Wake John?

Before he could make a decision, John went stiff, then still, then slumped. His head sank deeper into the pillow, and his face cleared. It seemed the nightmare, for now, had passed.

Sherlock let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Slowly, knowing the longer he stayed, the more he risked being discovered, he backed out of the room. He pulled the door partway closed again, wincing at the quiet creak of the hinges. John didn’t stir, sleeping soundly now that the mild nightmare had passed.

Moving silently away from the door on light feet, Sherlock escaped to his own room and shut himself away. There, dropping onto the edge of the bed, he set the laptop on the mattress and closed his eyes.

Behind them, imprinted on the backs of his eyelids and filling his head with the sound of waves, Sherlock saw the ocean.


	29. Intangible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to quiet his restless mind, and Sherlock takes advantage of a slow morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for explicit wanking and pining in the opening scene.

It wasn’t a retreat, John’s exit from the kitchen. His escape upstairs wasn’t the flight of a coward: it was a strategic bid for safer ground.

John tried to ignore his racing thoughts in the shower, stripped free of his clothes and the sweat sticking to his skin. He was thinking about too much, dwelling on the events of the day. On the electric, crackling energy he felt whenever he stood close to Sherlock. John hoped the noise of the shower, and the pulsing beat of water against tile might help drown out the din in his head. But it didn’t quite manage, and John’s thoughts ran onward, unchecked, relentless.

He forced his focus to something safer, turned his mind toward Portugal. Having a plan and knowing their next steps granted John with a previously-lacking sense of control. After having no say in much of what had happened over the past 48 hours, John finally felt centred. Though the work ahead of him was not without its dangers, John found himself looking forward to it. Portugal would bring its own challenges and risks, but knowing that he’d soon be in the thick of things again soothed John’s restless body, even if it didn’t quiet his racing mind. For years, mercenary work had provided a much-needed distraction from the past he strove to leave behind. Knowing they were moving into dangerous waters sent a familiar thrill down John’s spine.

Still, despite his excitement, there was much to think about. John had made a monumental choice in the space of a few short seconds by returning to the safe house that morning. He’d turned his back on possible freedom and gone back to Sherlock. John had made his choice and didn’t regret it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still reeling from the fallout.

Despite all that had happened, there was one moment that stood out to John above all else: Sherlock and him. The two of them, out in the yard, standing mere inches apart. That one moment drowned out the rest. It felt monumental, taking up too much space in John’s head, his thoughts consumed by what had nearly happened between them.

Eyes closed, John braced a hand against the tiled wall and let his head hang. The water beat against the back of his neck, spilling over his shoulders and dripping down his chest, washing away sweat and tension. Standing braced as he was, John gave in to the pull of his thoughts, letting them take him where they may.

They took him outside, back to the yard. Led him next to the brick wall with the smell of grass and a hot breeze filling his lungs. Underlaid beneath was Sherlock’s scent as he stood close. Far too close and yet not nearly close enough.

There, in an echo, John confessed his need.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” he’d said, like a man at confession, dropping the words at Sherlock’s feet. It had been a gamble, letting Sherlock hear that. John had made himself vulnerable, left himself open to the potential of rejection. Of pain and worse.

But Sherlock, even clearly caught off-guard by John’s words, hadn’t pushed him away. He had taken John’s confession in stride, absolved John of his crime of leaving, and accepted him.

In his mind’s eye, John was back in the moment. Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, sliding down with a light squeeze on John’s bicep before slipping lower, to John’s wrist. Again, he saw the softening of Sherlock’s eyes as he blinked in surprise.

John had been drawn to him, then. Pulled forward, drawn in, tugged by some invisible cord that left him helpless to resist. Watching the wheels turning in Sherlock’s head, the confusion and tentative hope in his gaze within his mind, John remembered that pull. He could almost feel his feet moving in the grass, his eyes dropping, finding Sherlock’s mouth.

God, those lips. Full, soft, and so close. John had wanted to kiss them then, and he still did. In the kitchen, standing so close to Sherlock, John had wanted him more than he’d wanted anything in years.

Five days. Five days with a stranger, and he was already in over his head. What would happen as more time passed? When five days turned into a week, turned into a month? John had no idea how long they’d be at this, how long it would take to achieve what had to be done. It could be a long while before they saw the end of this journey. What would that do to John? Sherlock had done something to him; he had worked his way under John’s skin and made his home there. He plagued John’s waking thoughts, made his body burn, and had done all that in _five days._ Seemingly without even trying.

John thought he might go mad well before they were through.

His hand curled into a fist against the wall, and John groaned. He felt amped-up and exhausted all at once, his body singing with need and energy, his muscles aching with fatigue. John wanted to collapse and sleep for days. He wanted to surge out into the hallway and never stop running until the electric charge coiled in his bones was spent. But he was trapped here. Of his own accord, but still trapped.

His mind pushed him back again, brought him back to that morning. But the memory didn’t end with them being interrupted. It didn’t follow the path of remembered reality. Instead, the moment shifted forward and into the fantasy John had cut short before facing Mycroft.

In John’s imagination, no one interrupted them. There was no scuffing noise, no ill-timed agent patrolling the yard. It was just John and Sherlock and the smell of grass underfoot. Here, in his head, John took that second step. He closed the distance between them. Heard Sherlock’s soft intake of breath, the quiet surprise translated from an exhale to the way Sherlock’s grip tightened on John’s wrist.

Everything slowed, time dropping to eternal seconds.  John felt fingertips, pushing hard and then softening against his pulse. There was the sound of his racing heart, the whisper of Sherlock’s quickened breath. A biting ache in John’s lungs as he held his own, forcing himself to breathe when his mind faded into a dizzy spin. He saw Sherlock’s eyes. Dark, open, cautious, darting between his. John felt himself react, felt a rush of heat in his face, saw the softening in Sherlock’s gaze.

Standing there in the shower with his head bowed, the John in his head closed the distance. In the present, his palm slid down the wall, and he took himself in hand, fingers curling around his stiffening erection. In the fantasy, he reached for Sherlock at the same time, and Sherlock let him.

He leaned into the brush of John’s fingers, tilting his head into the cup of John’s hand. Warm skin, heat beneath. In John’s hand, in the shower, and against his palm in the fantasy.

John gave himself a long, firm stroke and turned his mouth against his right shoulder to muffle the groan that rose in his throat. The Sherlock in his imagination was warm and inviting, his skin soft where they touched. A lightning crackle of heat — the shower, John’s flushed skin, his cock, hot and throbbing in his hand — raced down his spine.

A tilt of his chin and those lips were against John’s. No longer a mystery, even if the kiss was only in John’s head. Warm, pliable, Sherlock’s mouth dropping open under John’s seeking tongue. Just as soft as he’d hoped.

No. _Softer._

John whimpered and sank his teeth against his knuckles. He worked his cock with a slow but steady rhythm, hips rutting into the curl of his fist. Leaning his forehead to the wall, John sank into the fantasy. He imagined the taste of Sherlock’s tongue — slick, warm, heady — the sound of his gasp as John threaded his fingers into soft curls. He let himself imagine how it would feel when he tilted Sherlock’s head back and deepened the kiss.

Hot, sweet, perfect.

A chill raced through John’s body despite the warm water. He shivered, and his hips found a rhythm, cock twitching in his grip, muscles tensing as John worked himself toward relief.

In his mind, Sherlock kissed him back. He slid his hands up John’s chest and held tight to his shoulders, fingers curling around muscle. There was no pain in the fantasy, no twinge of nerve damage under Sherlock’s seeking grip. Just the two of them, tasting each other, Sherlock’s body pressed hard to John’s.

They came up for air and surged together again, reluctant to part completely. There was an edge of desperation and longing to the kiss, John’s aching arousal and desire seeping into the fantasy. Sherlock clung to him, groaned against his lips, pulled him closer.

With tension building in his body and his breath an unsteady rush, John imagined he heard Sherlock's whispered, _“John,”_ against his mouth. The fantasy-sound of his name, reverent and breathless, made John muffle a cry in his hand as he shuddered and spilled over his pumping fingers.

It seemed to go on for ages. His body shook and clenched until everything stilled, and John slumped against the wall. He panted, waiting for his breathing to slow. The Sherlock in his mind faded, dissipating into the fantasy he had always been. The sudden silence in his head made John feel sluggish and slow, and it was a while before he was able to stand upright again.

After letting the spray wash away the evidence, he shut off the water. John stood in the shower for a moment, his breathing still too fast and his heart racing in his chest. The endorphin high carried him out into the steamy air, letting him towel dry and brush his teeth with shaky hands. John finger-combed his hair and left it to air dry. Already, he was beginning to come down from the height of his climax, the slow drop leaving room for his earlier fatigue.

As it returned, his hands quivered with exhaustion, and his muscles felt impossibly heavy.

John stumbled back to his room with a towel wrapped around his waist and dried the few droplets still clinging to his body. He hadn’t planned to stay upstairs past his shower, but now that his limbs were weighted by dopamine and oxytocin, the bed looked far too inviting.

John tossed the damp towel onto the wardrobe and dumped his clothes on the floor at the foot of the large bed. He managed to pull on a pair of new pants, thought idly about finding a washing machine for his dirty laundry, and collapsed onto the bed. He had just enough brain function left to realize he hadn’t closed the bedroom door and to then dismiss the thought. He no longer felt the urge to lock himself away. John wasn’t a prisoner anymore — he was here of his own accord. Trapped, but by choice.

With his mind at ease, John kicked the duvet onto the floor, tugged the top sheet up to his waist, and let his fatigue pull him into a deep, dreamless dark.

* * *

Sleep wouldn’t come.

Still imbued with the restless energy that had crept over him in the kitchen, Sherlock couldn’t get his mind to settle. He tried to force it quiet by sinking into his Mind Palace, seeking out controlled distraction. But inside his mind, he found the halls and rooms already neat and orderly. Desperate for anything to do, he organized the events of the day. To his frustration, it only took an hour to sort through the new information. Sherlock finished by slotting Mycroft’s travel plans into their respective place before turning to the new things he’d learned about John. The gleanings of John’s backstory slipped into neat spaces, sliding between the facts that Sherlock already knew.

When he opened his eyes again, he was no closer to sleep than before. Admitting defeat, Sherlock pushed the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled on a pair of loose cotton bottoms, ruffled his pillow-mussed curls, and padded out into the hall.

The door to John’s room was still cracked open. Sherlock paused to admire the bar of moonlight that slipped through the narrow space, watching it spill silver over the hardwood. There was something mesmerizing about the sight. It was almost hypnotic, making it difficult for Sherlock to look away.

Managing to turn away, at last, he padded down the hall to the bathroom, finding the floor warm beneath his bare feet. He left the light off, splashing water on his face in the dark. The chill was refreshing, a soothing, welcome contrast to the heat still lingering in the house from the day. The air conditioning was off — no doubt on some kind of timer — and the air felt almost stifling.

Sherlock left the bathroom and moved down the hall again, pausing to cast a wondering look at his own bedroom. Maybe he should try to sleep. But the idea was unappealing. He knew he would end up lying awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling with sleep reluctant to join him. Pausing only to retrieve his laptop from the bedroom, Sherlock went downstairs instead, descending the steps in the dark until he reached the hallway outside the sitting room. There, the moon burned against the picture windows. It provided a kind of half-light, which felt to Sherlock like some incorporeal presence lingered in the dim room. It was ghostly and silent, and far more inviting than the dark, sleepless space of the upstairs bedroom.

Laptop tucked under his arm, Sherlock folded himself against the corner of the love seat. He tried not to think about sitting here with John earlier in the day and didn’t quite succeed. Shaking his head, Sherlock wriggled deeper into the arm, working to find a comfortable position. Finally settled and using his bent knees as an impromptu desk, he set the small computer against his thighs and waited for it to wake. As it did, Sherlock blinked, slow and lazily, at the span of stars visible beyond the glass window.

There was a dreamy quality to the room, with the lights off and the house quiet around him. Unlike that morning, when Sherlock had woken and listened to the silence of the house and wondered if he was alone, this felt peaceful. This was the silver silence of sleep, of nighttime and the knowledge that someone else slept within the same walls Sherlock inhabited.

That knowledge made Sherlock feel oddly at ease, comforted by the simple fact that he wasn’t alone in the house. As unfamiliar as the building was, it helped to know he wasn’t the only stranger within.

Distracted by his own idle, wandering thoughts, he finally looked away from the stars and the dark night sky when the laptop made a soft noise as it booted up. From there, Sherlock entered the relevant passwords and access codes and proceeded to lose himself in hours of research. He pulled up screen after screen about Portugal and Cascais, reading about shipping routes, perusing records on who owned what fishing companies, determining what boats had been in which families for years beyond counting. He identified the local tourist traps, the state of the economy and how many people travelled to the area per year. He read about decriminalization and the harm reduction practices, and the ongoing issue with drug trafficking in the area.

Sherlock devoured pages of information until his eyes burned and his head ached. A dull, thudding pain throbbed at his temples, keeping tempo with his sluggish heart rate. It was only when he finally glanced away from the screen to press his fingers to the hammering pulse beneath the skin of his temples that Sherlock realized the night had faded away. The dark had stretched, deepened, and vanished while he worked, the sky lightening from black to the pale blue of early morning.

He’d stayed up all night, reading and memorizing and organizing. Now, Sherlock had a head full of buzzing, new information, the beginnings of a migraine, and eyes made red-rimmed and sandy by lack of sleep. His stomach growled, letting him know his body had other needs, ones that refused to be ignored any longer. After days of little sustenance, his transport demanded care.

Tedious.

A quiet sound, the soft drag of foot over floor, caught his attention. Gripping the laptop, Sherlock twisted around to look behind him. He saw John standing in the entryway to the sitting room, wearing a pair of loose bottoms similar to his own and a faded t-shirt.

Sherlock blinked. “John?” he said, somewhat dumbly. Obviously, it was John. Anyone could see that. It appeared that Sherlock’s transport was rebelling in more ways than one. He needed sleep, but there was still much to be done. Sherlock didn’t know enough about Portugal — he still didn’t feel prepared for whatever awaited them in Cascais. But food, that he could do. Check the box, appease the transport and get back to work — in that order.

“Morning,” came the cautious reply from the hall, recapturing his attention. John’s eyes travelled over Sherlock, lingering on his bare torso, then the laptop, then his long, pale bare feet before returning to his face. “Did you stay up all night?”

Sherlock blinked again, this time owlishly. His mind felt sluggish. “Yes,” he replied, not sure what else to say. He felt sheepish at being caught out for staying up all night and squashed the irrational feeling at once. He didn’t owe John an explanation: John wasn’t his doctor or his parent. He was barely anything more than a stranger.

The thought didn’t sound quite as firm in his head as Sherlock thought it should.

John nodded, taking Sherlock’s mood in stride. “Alright,” he said. He looked around the room one last time, studied Sherlock with a furrowed brow, and looked away again. Rubbing his hands against his thighs, he tapped his fingers to his legs before letting his hands fall loose and meeting Sherlock’s blurry gaze. “Coffee?”

His brain still felt fuzzy from lack of sleep as Sherlock tilted his head. “Please,” he replied in a rasp and cleared his throat. John just nodded again and turned away, disappearing into the hall and the kitchen beyond. Sherlock watched him go with another slow blink before rubbing the grit from his eyes and rising.

After only a moment of hesitation, he set the laptop on the coffee table and moved to follow John.

* * *

The coffee maker was making a soft humming sound when John heard Sherlock enter the kitchen. He didn’t turn to face him right away, keeping his focus on the pan heating on the range before him. The oil sizzled, and John cracked two eggs into a bowl, whisking them into a frothy yellow mess with a fork. To this, he added cheese, grating it right from the block into the bowl. John added peppers next, cut coarsely and without flair before they were added to the mixture in the pan. He watched the yolky-mix spread into the heated oil and listened to the coffee maker gurgling away.

The morning felt so… _domestic_. Commonplace and ordinary. It was almost possible for John to believe his life had never taken a turn for the nightmarish. Like he was young again and had yet to ship out on deployment for the first time. Like he was back in his early twenties, cooking breakfast for whoever had shared his bed the night before.

But he wasn’t back in the before. He hadn’t shared his bed with anyone last night. He’d tossed himself off in the shower to a fantasy and slept alone. John thought he should feel embarrassed by that, but he only felt tired. With that fatigue came the realization that he was the same person today that he’d been when he went to bed the night before. John was here, in the now, living out a future he’d never imagined in his darkest moments. All those times he’d stood over the stove in his past life, just like this, never could have prepared him for the reality he was living. It couldn’t have prepared him for Afghanistan or for his time as a mercenary. Certainly, it couldn’t have hoped to prepare John for Sherlock, Mycroft, the safe house and, soon, Portugal.

No. John wasn’t making breakfast for some gorgeous conquest that had shared his bed the night before, the day stretching open and promising ahead of him. He was making eggs in a safe house in Gibraltar, still a washed-up soldier with too many scars, too many nightmares, and not a hell of a lot more. He tried not to feel bitter. After all, he wasn’t entirely destitute. He had a purpose. John had that now, in some semblance.

And that purpose, personified, had followed him into the kitchen and was now being far too quiet for John’s liking.

Locking the past back where it belonged, John glanced toward the table. Sherlock sat at the side closest to the screen door. He looked wilted, half slumped over the back of the chair and staring out at the yard. His eyes were only partway open, his gaze unfocused with a glazed look on his face.

Amused and a little concerned by the vacancy in Sherlock’s expression, John scooped the cooked eggs onto two plates, poured the coffee, and juggled everything over to the table. To his surprise, Sherlock immediately tucked into the food, eating with mechanical movements that reminded John of his soldier years. Eat, work, sleep had been his mantra then, and it seemed to be Sherlock’s now. It was almost a shock to see him devour the food, and it made John rise to pop four slices of bread into the large toaster. When he returned with a plate of butter-and-jam slathered pieces, Sherlock took two without a word and ate both slices.

John dug into his breakfast with far less avarice, watching Sherlock lick jam from his fingers and sip at his coffee with a look of desperate relief.

“Not sure I’ve ever seen you eat so much in one sitting,” John commented casually. He kept his eyes on his plate, skewering a green pepper with his fork. Still, he didn’t miss the way Sherlock went stiff, pausing with his mug halfway to his mouth.

He unfroze a moment later with a series of blinks. “I don’t eat much when I’m working.” His gaze appeared less vacant, his fatigue seemingly somewhat appeased by the influx of calories.

John looked up from his plate and raised an eyebrow. “So, what? You’re on vacation now?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked in wry amusement. “Refuelling,” he replied, taking a sip of his coffee and smacking his lips for emphasis. The sound made John hide his own smile behind his cup. “Much as I abhor it, I do have to maintain my transport.”

“Transport?” John repeated, bemused. He set his coffee aside and picked up his fork again, looking to Sherlock for clarity.

“The human body is a fickle thing, capable of much but still a slave to bothersome needs and insistent demands.” Sherlock sounded annoyed by his body’s necessary functions. He prodded at a wayward crumb on the table with a disdainful expression. “I prefer to view mine as simple transport. My brain is the most important part of the system. Its needs — stimulation, curiousity, cleverness — are my main priority. Everything else is just,” he waved a hand, “an unfortunate side-effect of being human.”

“Right…” John sat back in his chair, laying his fork aside and trying to process Sherlock’s strange words. “Brains need food too, you know,” he pointed out, smirking at Sherlock’s mutinous expression. _“And_ sleep.”

Another dismissive wave, Sherlock flicking his fingers in dismissal. “So you’ve been led to believe. The limits of the human body can be pushed, often much further than you medical professionals choose to believe.”

“Oi,” John huffed, pointing a finger in Sherlock’s direction. “Don’t start with me.” There was a playful edge to their discussion, and John found himself enjoying it despite his earlier bitterness. His life might be different now, but there were still moments that weren’t entirely terrible. This — their easy banter — was a good reminder of that.

Sherlock’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to make John snort. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Doctor Watson.”

“No one has called me that in years,” John said with a sigh that sounded wistful even to his own ears. “Not sure how I feel about it. Though, I suppose I prefer it over Captain.”

Sherlock made a low sound in his throat that might have been one of agreement and turned his focus back to his coffee. When he rose to refill his mug, John accepted the silent offer to fill his own. Once Sherlock was seated again, John scooped the last of his eggs into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and pushed his plate aside.

“So, this not sleeping, not eating thing,” he began, catching Sherlock’s focus from where it had drifted to his coffee. “These are regular occurrences for you?”

Shrugging, Sherlock stared at John over the rim of his mug. His eyes were sharp, searching John’s. “When my mind is otherwise engaged, yes.”

John tilted his head in thought. “You seemed to sleep a lot when we were in Morocco. I mean, considering how little opportunity there was for it.”

Sherlock’s expression turned sour. “Yes, well,” he said in a curt, clipped voice, “I wasn’t exactly at my best, was I?”

“Suppose not,” John admitted. He reached for his mug again, and they both lapsed into silence. This time, it felt… uncomfortable. Wondering if it was just him, John cleared his throat before asking, “All better, then?” At Sherlock’s bemused look, John tapped a finger to his own forehead, indicating the same spot where Sherlock still had a fading bruise on his temple. “Your head. No more concussion?”

“Oh.” Sherlock tapped the side of his cup before setting it down on the table with a quiet _click_. “Much better, yes.” He frowned, blinked, and added, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” John said with a dry laugh. “I was the one who gave you the first one.”

Hands folded together, Sherlock rubbed the tips of his fingers over his bottom lip with a thoughtful expression. John forced his eyes away when they dropped to fix on the plush curve of Sherlock’s mouth.

_Dammit, Watson,_ he thought, jaw clenched, _stay focused._

“Mm, you did, didn’t you?” Sherlock mused, his voice deepening.

John swallowed. “Yeah. Uh. Sorry?” He didn’t mean for it to emerge as a question, but it did, and he grimaced.

Sherlock waved a hand. “You were only following orders. You kidnapped me, but you also saved my life. I trapped you here with my brother, and I gave you back your freedom. I think we can both agree that we’re even on the, you know,” Sherlock wiggled his fingers, rolling his eyes, “the karmic scale or some other inane measurement of balanced actions.”

John shook his head in amazed amusement, hardly believing the brush-off. He’d had people refuse to forgive him for far less than kidnapping, attempted murder, and a concussion. Yet here was Sherlock, forgiving him for that and maybe even more. “Blimey,” John said, breathing a softer laugh than before. “You’re really something else, aren’t you?”

Stress lines appeared at the edges of Sherlock’s eyes, his body snapping upright with sudden and severe tension. “I’m… I’m not sure what you…” He scowled, his lower lip pushing out just a bit with the force of his disquiet. John thought it shouldn’t have looked as endearing as it did. “Is that meant to be an insult?”

“No, no,” John said, shaking his head again in bemusement. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Ah.” Sherlock eased back into his chair, his body relaxing as the tension faded from his face. “A compliment, then.”

John’s mouth twitched upward into a small smile. “That it is.”

Sherlock preened. Though he tried to hide it by busying himself with gathering the dirtied plates from the table, John could tell that Sherlock was pleased by the praise, even if he didn’t seem to understand why he’d received it.

In all honesty, John wasn’t entirely sure why he’d given it — or what he’d meant by it.

To his surprise, when he rose to wash the dishes, Sherlock beat him to it. He was already elbow-deep in a sink filled with far too many suds, scrubbing at the cooled pan John had used to cook the eggs. Sherlock didn’t seem to have any particular skill at washing up. Still, he went at it with a certain stubbornness John couldn’t help but find amusing.

Rather than comment on the mountain of bubbles covering Sherlock’s bare arms, John took up a clean dishcloth and set to drying what Sherlock washed. He earned himself a confused glance, but Sherlock held his tongue, and they silently went about their work.

As they worked through the dishes, John was again struck by the unexpected domesticity of the morning. They moved together as a unit, rotating around one another when it was needed, like a well-oiled machine at work.

The fluidity settled something John hadn’t realized still felt unsteady within him. Mundane and small as it was, seeing how they worked together inspired John with new confidence for the choice he’d made to come back. It was like some silent accord had been struck in their halting conversation at the table. They were on the same page now, not merely allies but allied. A team. Just the two of them.

If six days with Sherlock brought them to this suddenly seamless partnership, then John could only imagine more time together would improve their connection. What might it look like when they’d worked together for longer? Would one month, two, six see them finishing one another’s sentences and predicting the other’s thoughts?

John wasn’t sure, and he didn’t know if the idea appealed or not. Still, drying the last dish and tucking it into its rightful cupboard, John found himself looking forward to having a chance to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up that after this week's Friday update, Hired Gun updates will be reduced to once a week so I can focus on my FandomTrumpsHate auction works. I'll probably keep the Friday updates and scrap the Tuesday ones until those works are finished (or Hired Gun is done, whichever comes first). 
> 
> I'll post a reminder in the Friday chapter.


	30. In Good Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deals with the limitations of his transport, and John puts Mycroft's mind at ease.

The morning’s restive energy did not last. Shovelling food into his body at an alarming rate earned Sherlock a stomach ache. Paired with the migraine still flitting about behind his temples, he was reduced to a miserable slump across the couch in the sitting room. It seemed his body was still recovering from his recent ordeals. Staying up all night staring at a screen had done little to help with Sherlock’s recovery.

He hadn’t lied when John asked him about the concussion. It _had_ seemed better. Now, however, with his head pounding, it felt fresh again. Sherlock’s ears rang with the force of his agony. He listened to John puttering upstairs through the din and wondered what he was doing before closing his eyes with a groan. Even thinking felt like a Herculean task, pain pulsing behind his eyes to a sickening beat. Sherlock melted over the couch and stayed there for the better part of the morning.

When John reappeared an hour later from upstairs, he was dressed, tidied, and looking far more put together than Sherlock thought he had any right to. Clearly, his early-to-bed sleep the night before had done him good. He looked revitalized, almost glowing with renewed energy. Trying to rein back his mixed feelings of admiration and jealousy, Sherlock settled deeper into the couch and watched John cross the room. He sat on the loveseat without looking Sherlock’s way and pulled out his new phone. Something in his expression, something keen and anticipatory, made Sherlock struggle into an upright position and squint at him.

“What are you looking at?”

John answered without looking away from his phone, “The weapons catalogue your brother sent.” He tapped the screen, scrolled for a moment, and finally glanced at Sherlock. He did a double-take. If not for the beat pounding away at Sherlock’s temples, he might have found it amusing. As it was, he only felt sick and worn out. “Jesus, you look awful,” John said, his nose crinkling with concern.

Sherlock replied in a dry, rasping voice, “Ever the flatterer.” He hoped his wry retort would put John off from looking too closely, but John was tenacious. He rose and approached the couch, frowning down at Sherlock.

“You really shouldn’t have stayed up all night,” he said, eyes darkened by the edge in his voice.

Sherlock blinked up at him, struck by the differences between now and just a few days ago. Only recently, John had stood over him in much the same way, and Sherlock had been his prisoner. Despite his earlier forgiveness for John’s past actions, it was hard to miss the comparison. Sherlock cleared his throat and waved a hand. “I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not.” John’s eyes narrowed. “In fact, you’re kind of grey, and I’ll eat my belt if you can open your eyes all the way without wincing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Sherlock snapped, his jaw clenched against a surge of nausea. “Prepare for a mouthful of leather.” Desperate to prove John wrong, he widened his eyes. Sherlock immediately flinched, and John’s face twitched with amusement before it hardened again.

“Yeah, you’re great.” A sarcastic edge made John’s words sound harsher than Sherlock imagined he intended. His voice softened in the next second. “Migraine?”

Sherlock nodded grudgingly. Doing so made his head throb, and his teeth clicked together in a grimace.

The corners of John’s mouth tugged down as his frown deepened. “You need to rest. I get that this,” he waved a hand to indicate Sherlock’s shirtless, sprawled body, “is all just transport to you. But your brain will be of no use to either of us if you run yourself ragged before we’ve even left for Portugal.” He pursed his lips, eyes running over Sherlock’s form. There was nothing covetous about it, John’s clinical expression turning what could have been a leer into an analysis.

Despite the pain ripping through his skull, Sherlock forced his lips up into a smirk. Recalling their conversation over breakfast, he cheekily asked, “What is your recommended treatment, Doctor?” The flippant question cost him some of his last-remaining strength, but it was worth it to see the bemused look and slight flush that rose on John’s cheeks.

But the colour faded almost as quickly as it appeared. “You need sleep in a dark room.” John tilted his head, indicating the second floor with a jerk of his chin. “Get upstairs.” When Sherlock opened his mouth to voice his protests, John’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “This isn’t up for discussion.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed. He pushed up off the couch with a sour expression, making to swan out of the room in a strop. His plan was immediately foiled by his legs refusing to cooperate. If not for the hand John placed on his chest and his bracing arm across Sherlock’s front, he would have fallen.

“Yeah, you’re clearly fine,” John muttered, his eye roll just visible before he shifted to Sherlock’s side.

Angry words rose — _I don’t_ need _your help_ — and died on Sherlock’s lips, snuffed out when John’s arm slipped around his waist. The contact was like an electric shock, John’s hand hot but welcome against Sherlock’s bare torso. John’s fingers curled to grip his side, his short nails tickling over Sherlock’s skin. The contact made Sherlock fight to suppress a shiver. He saw that John still wore that clinical air about him, his expression carefully distant. And yet, standing as close as they were, Sherlock couldn’t miss the slight catch in John’s inhale, nor the way his fingers tightened for a second before loosening. It reminded him of the night before, of his sudden conviction that he must speak to John about whatever it was that seemed to be growing between them, only to find John asleep.

John began to herd him out into the hallway, and, again, Sherlock missed his chance to put a name to his feelings.

Sherlock’s faltering steps slowed their progress, and the hallway suddenly felt endless beneath Sherlock’s dragging feet. Navigating the stairs was a lesson in balance. John coaxed him up each step with quiet patience that contradicted his hard edges. He didn’t rush and let Sherlock lean into him, accepting the arm Sherlock draped over his shoulders with only a small wince.

They made it to the second floor, and John led him to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock let himself be guided, towed along by the arm around his waist and the hand on his bicep. The room was cool from the air conditioning, and John kept the lights off when they entered. Sherlock immediately found some small semblance of relief in the dim space, though the pain in his head didn’t disappear. Still, it did abate somewhat, his eyes no longer under assault from the sunlight streaming through the large picture windows in the sitting room.

Sherlock couldn’t help the soft, relieved sigh that escaped him as the pressure eased behind his forehead. With mild reluctance, he stumbled free of John’s grip and tipped onto the bed. Sherlock didn’t bother with the covers, face shoved into the pillows as pain washed through his skull in waves. He was dimly aware of John arranging his lower body onto the bed, his hands gentle on Sherlock's legs, and of John leaving the room. He heard the water running down the hall. When John returned, there was a quiet click that brought to mind the image of a water glass set on the bedside table, and John’s hovering presence reappeared next to the bed.

“There’s some paracetamol here for you,” John said, his voice pitched carefully low. “It might not help much, but it’s there if you want it. Sleep will help more.”

Sunk deep into the dark of the room, helpless to the pounding in his head, John’s words felt like a slow, soft caress on the bare skin of Sherlock’s back. Clearly, it was his brain mixing up sensory functions from the migraine, nothing tangible. Still, the sensation was interesting, and it made him shiver. Sherlock managed a muffled sound of acknowledgement, even simple words feeling like far too much of a struggle.

“Cold?” John asked, no doubt noting the shiver. Sherlock carefully shook his head, keeping his face pressed into the pillow. “Alright.” There was a pause, John lingering next to the bed.

Sherlock wished he could raise his head and see John’s expression, but another surge of agony pulsed through his skull, and it didn’t seem worth it. He sighed instead, grudgingly annoyed with himself for allowing such a state to befall him.

The room was quiet. Finally, John cleared his throat and said, “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” His retreat was nearly silent, his exit betrayed only by the quiet creak of the door as he pushed it almost to closing. Sherlock didn’t hear the click of the striker plate and knew it must be cracked open, just enough for him to be heard if he called out. The knowledge was unexpectedly soothing, and he let his body sink into a slump, waiting for the migraine to fade.

* * *

Back downstairs and alone once more, John paused in the sitting room and looked around with unfocused eyes. His mind was still on the second floor. In the darkened bedroom with Sherlock, sprawled over the sheets with his face in the pillow. Sherlock, who was still shirtless. John’s mind wandered, showed him an expanse of pale, bare skin, smooth over the shape of shoulders. The sweeping arch of his spine, narrowing into the dimpled dip of Sherlock’s lower back...

John shook his head with a huff. His mind was out of control. This unrelenting lust was unacceptable and already starting to drive John mad. He’d hoped his wank in the shower the night before would help take the edge off his desire, but it seemed to have done the opposite. Rather than appease his lustful thoughts, it had opened the dam, and there seemed to be no closing the flood gates now that they were parted.

Sitting across the table that morning from a shirtless Sherlock had been hard enough. Helping him up the stairs with his arm pressed against warm, bare skin and Sherlock leaning into him had been a trial by fire. But John was a doctor. Or, he had been, once, and he’d relied on that taught clinical detachment to keep himself from responding. It had worked, more or less, to John’s relief.

Worse than his tenacious desire was knowing how Sherlock viewed his body as nothing more than transport. If he saw sleep and food as nothing more than necessary evils, what must he think of more intimate cravings? No doubt, Sherlock saw sexual urges as unwelcome distractions. It was unlikely he would be interested in John even if he _did_ indulge in sexual release. After all, just a few days ago, they’d been enemies. Accepted apology aside, John wouldn’t delude himself by thinking Sherlock might share the same rising feelings that John did.

Still, John knew there wasn’t much he wouldn’t give to have Sherlock turn to him for more. For comfort. He ached for Sherlock to seek him out with a different kind of need, one reflected by dilated pupils and quickened breaths. Wandering hands and arching backs and —

John was saved from his maddening, run-away thoughts by the front door opening.

The sound of the lock and the click of the handle both made him tense. John turned toward the door, left hand dropping to his side before his mind caught up and reminded him that there was no shoulder holster there, no gun ready and within reach. Both weapons were upstairs, tucked away in John’s duffle and stored beneath the bed.

He let his hand fall to his side and waited as the door opened to reveal Mycroft. He was holding a messenger bag and a stack of takeaway containers, and he paused at the sight of John, standing in the hall on high alert.

“Oh, Captain Watson,” Mycroft said, only a brief flicker of surprise showing on his face before his expression shifted into one of polite greeting. “I didn’t anticipate finding you standing in the middle of the hallway.” He closed the door behind him and glanced into the sitting room, then the kitchen. His brow furrowed. “Where is Sherlock?”

“Upstairs,” John replied, waving over his shoulder. “He’s in bed.”

One of Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “He’s taking a nap?” He sounded skeptical, his eyes studying John with a suspicious gleam.

Now that he knew Sherlock’s strange habit of ignoring his bodily needs, John suppressed a snort. “He stayed up all night and gave himself a migraine. I told him to go for a lie down.”

Mycroft froze, his eyes slowly rising to meet John’s. He looked stunned, and John tried not to feel petty as he savoured the rare expression.

“You… you asked him to go for a nap?” Mycroft asked, incredulous. “And he _listened?”_

John lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s not like I forced him,” he said. “He’s an adult man, not a child. I told him he needed to sleep or he’d be useless.” John shrugged again. “I guess he agreed.”

“Hm,” Mycroft hummed. He looked thoughtful, studying John closely for a moment, but didn’t say anything more. Instead, he tipped his head in a small nod and moved into the kitchen.

Bemused by the seemingly easy acceptance, John followed. “Why are you here? I thought Portugal was settled.” He watched Mycroft set the takeaway containers on the table. They were fancier than John was used to, brown wax-coated boxes instead of his usual styrofoam cases. A tempting smell drifted from the boxes, making John’s mouth water with the familiar scent of salt and grease. Breakfast was a few hours gone, and John struggled not to drool as Mycroft turned back to him. It seemed his deep sleep had awakened a powerful hunger as John’s body tried to regain strength and power after days of unrelenting stress.

“Come now, Captain Watson. Is that any way to talk to someone who brought you lunch?” There was a knowing smirk on Mycroft’s lips, and John knew his hunger hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“You can’t blame me for thinking you might have ulterior motives,” John grumbled. “Given our history and all that.” He dropped into a seat at the table with a sour expression.

“Be that as it may, I come bearing a peace offering,” Mycroft said in a tone clearly meant to appease.

John didn’t trust Mycroft’s ‘peace offering,’ and he scowled. But the wariness didn’t last long, as Mycroft opened the takeaway boxes to reveal fresh, steaming servings of fish and chips. John’s stomach growled at the sight, and he swallowed back the mouthful of saliva the smell inspired. “You should open with the food next time,” he said, reaching for one of the containers with far more telling eagerness than he’d have liked. “I haven’t had proper fish and chips in years.” John grabbed a plastic fork and dug into the battered fish, almost groaning at the thick, heavenly-smelling stream that rose from the box. “Oh, god.” The first bite was too hot, but John didn’t care, closing his eyes at the salty, crispy, melt-in-his-mouth taste. “Oh, god,” he repeated, savouring the flaky fish.

Sitting down across from him, Mycroft watched John with a gleam in his eye. “I suspected you might enjoy a taste of home.” He opened one of the other boxes but only poked at the chips, moving them around with a speculative, wistful expression. Closing it again, he sighed and pushed it aside, opening a smaller box with a lush, green salad inside. As healthy as it looked, John found he preferred his own meal.

“This is almost enough to make me consider forgiving you for being a manipulative arse.” John let out a blissful hum as he bit into a chip and found it perfectly salted and golden-brown.

“Oh, good,” Mycroft said in a pleased voice, poking a fork through his salad. “I’d hoped as much.”

John paused with a chip in his hand, eyeing Mycroft with distrust. “Oh? Did you?”

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded and set his fork aside. “Since I do happen to have an ulterior motive.”

John groaned and pushed his food aside with a scowl. “Of course you do,” he muttered sullenly. “And here I thought you’d finally grown a heart.” John ate another chip, but the food no longer tasted as wonderful as it once had, now that he knew it was a bribe. John sighed, the food he had ingested sitting like a rock in his stomach. “Can’t you Holmes brothers just _ask_ for things instead of manipulating everyone into doing what you want?” The snark earned him a stern look, and John sighed again. “Fine. I’ll take that as a no. I’d like to have a talk with your parents one day, by the way.” Crossing his arms over his chest, John narrowed his eyes. “Alright, out with it, then. What do you want?”

“I only wish to talk, Captain Watson,” Mycroft said, spreading his hands in an open gesture of peace.

John’s jaw clenched hard enough that something clicked. “I’ve heard that one before,” he grumbled. “Go ahead, pull the other one. Last time you wanted to talk, you tried to imprison me here as a traitor.”

“Needs must,” Mycroft said dismissively. “And we are all on the same page now, are we not? It stands to reason, then, that it was worth it.”

“Agree to disagree,” John ground out through his teeth. “Anyways. Your peace offering is getting cold, and I’m much less inclined to play your games knowing my chips are getting soggy. You really should hurry up and get to the point before I decide I don’t want to listen.”

Mycroft settled his hands together on top of the table, his expression one of strained politeness. “Very well,” he said, flashing an insincere smile at John. “Sherlock.” He didn’t say more or elaborate, and John blinked before narrowing his eyes again.

“Is there more to that sentence?”

Mycroft tipped his head. “What are your intentions?”

John frowned. “My… what?”

“Your intentions with my brother,” Mycroft said as if that clarified anything.

Lips pressed together, John leaned back and lifted his chin. “Didn’t you manufacture an entire scenario to prove my commitment to helping your brother clear his name and finish off the remaining members of Moriarty’s network?” He studied Mycroft for a moment, unblinking as Mycroft sat and looked back at him. “I’d say my intentions are pretty clear.”

“Do you think so, Captain Watson?” Mycroft asked in a slow drawl. His calm was infuriating.

John dropped his arms from his chest and leaned forward. “I’m really not interested in playing this game, whatever it is,” he snapped. His already-stretched patience had come to an end. “What exactly are you getting at, Mycroft?”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched, and John wondered what the small micro-expression signified. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, Mycroft’s face once more impassive. “You’re very loyal _very_ quickly, Captain Watson,” he said, his voice empty of inflection. “Why is that, do you think?”

Shoulders snapping back, John went rigid. “Excuse me?” he asked carefully, tone dropping into something razor-edged and dangerous. “I was a soldier. Of course I’m loyal.”

This time, Mycroft’s mouth twisted into a full smile, nearly as sharp as John’s. There was a hint of pity to it, making John bristle. “And how did that work out for you?”

“You—” John cut himself off mid-sentence, teeth clicking together. He shook his head, too angry to speak, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. The slow breathing did little to calm him. It was a moment before John trusted himself to try again, his words chosen with care. “I’ll ask you again — what are you getting at?”

Leaning across the table, Mycroft fixed John with a pointed stare. “I need to know that you will keep him safe.” He didn’t wait for John’s reply, his voice curt as he continued, “You may have come back yesterday, but how can I be sure that you won’t abandon my brother again?” Mycroft’s brows lowered, snapping together in a frown. “When something goes sideways, or things don’t work out as planned, will you run again, Captain Watson? Will you leave my brother to hang in the wind, clutching at nothing but the shock you leave behind in your wake?”

The words struck John like a blow, making his furious retort stick in his throat. He managed to cough, clearing the restriction. “No,” he said, raspy and hoarse. John coughed again, repeating himself, _“No._ No, I won’t run.” His eyes dropped, shifting away from Mycroft’s piercing stare, voice softening. “I won’t leave him. Not… not now.” Squirming in the chair, John forced himself to meet Mycroft’s gaze again. He saw something there and couldn’t make sense of what it meant. “I won’t leave him again.”

Mycroft didn’t move for a moment. He simply sat and studied John across the table before nodding and settling back in his chair. “Good,” Mycroft said. He sounded pleased. “That’s very good. I apologize for doubting you. I had to be sure, you see.” As if that was all that needed to be said, Mycroft began to eat his salad.

Bemused by the exchange, it was a while before John felt the tension drain out of his body. With slow hands, he picked up his own fork and dug into his food again. The chips had gone cold, and they turned to mush in his mouth. He chewed without enjoyment. The fish was a little warmer, but John found he didn’t taste a bite, his focus occupied by Mycroft’s words ringing in his head.

_I won’t leave him again,_ he’d said in response to Mycroft’s pointed questions. And John knew he’d meant it.

* * *

Sherlock woke to a clear head, a cool room, and the lingering smell of grease in the air. He frowned at the last and blinked up at the ceiling, his brain slowly kicking into gear as it realized the debilitating pain from earlier had passed. Taking a moment to stretch and settle, letting his body catch up as the dregs of sleep cleared, Sherlock listened to the house. It was quiet, though not nearly as quiet as it had been the morning he’d woken up alone. Small sounds filtered into his awareness. Closing his eyes, Sherlock noted each as they touched his senses. Birds singing outside, the distant sound of a car horn, voices out in the yard below his window, the faint rush of water on the first floor. It was this that reminded him of the other presence in the house. Of John, no doubt still downstairs doing who knew what. The idea of him down there, perhaps doing something so mundane as washing his hands or using the loo, imbued Sherlock with a strange sense of calm.

He rose slowly, wary of any unsteadiness that might still linger in his legs. But he felt steady, relieved to find that sleep had cleared away the symptoms of his migraine. A glance at his phone confirmed the time as a little past three in the afternoon. Sherlock blinked. He’d slept for several hours, a rarity for him.

Perturbed by what he felt was an uncharacteristic display of sloth, Sherlock tossed the phone onto the bed as his mind began to whir. There was work to be done, and he was wasting time. Casting a glance around the room, he realized he felt grimy, his sleepless night leaving behind a muzzy feeling despite the nap.

A quick shower helped banish the sensation, and, as he descended the stairs in a crisp suit-jacket-and-trousers combo, Sherlock almost felt refreshed. His curls were still damp, and a slow water droplet painted a shiver down his neck before he entered the sitting room.

He froze in the doorway, taking in the scene before him.

Mycroft stood by the window, drinking something hot from a mug with steam curling up toward his amused face. Following his gaze, Sherlock looked at the coffee table. There he found John, crouched between table and sofa. His hands were busy at work with something he’d dismantled over the surface before him. Metal pieces, matte black and silver, caught the light from the windows. As Sherlock watched, hovering in the entryway, John’s hands moved over the pieces. His movements were skillful as he picked up the bits and slotted them neatly together.

Before Sherlock’s eyes, the shape of a large, intimidating gun took form.

John picked up what Sherlock recognized as a magazine, gave it a quick, playful flip from one hand to the other, and slipped it into place with a sharp click. He did so with a small smirk, both the action and the expression making Sherlock’s stomach do a little flip of its own. His mind gifted him with a flash of memory, a sensory recall.

John’s arm curled about his waist. His fingers, sturdy and compact, gripping Sherlock’s bare side. Warm skin-to-skin contact.

Sherlock shook the memory away, though his breathing came a little faster as John rose with the gun cradled in his hands, the weapon braced across his chest. Whether intentional or instinctive, John’s shoulders fell back, and his spine straightened. He stood tall, handling the large weapon with quiet confidence. The small smirk had faded. John’s expression looked impassive, his face settled by a calm that Sherlock immediately envied. He lifted the gun and peered through the sight, the barrel angled toward the floor.

He smiled. “Oh, that'll do nicely.” John lowered the gun, his gaze lifting from the weapon to catch sight of Sherlock. He blinked. “Sherlock. You’re awake,” John said, drawing Mycroft’s attention away from him and toward the entry.

Sherlock felt his brother’s eyes on him, but the scrutiny didn’t hold his attention for long. Despite the dark excitement in his face, John lay the large gun down on the table and approached him. He did so with a quick stride, eating up the distance between them until he was close enough for Sherlock to hear his breathing and feel the warmth of him. His mouth opened and clicked shut just as quickly when John reached out and gripped his chin with a light touch, tilting Sherlock’s head downward.

John’s palm was rough, callused by years of handling guns and scalpels, the marks of his work imprinted into his skin. For a few fleeting seconds, with his breath caught in his throat and nearly choking him, Sherlock’s mind went blank. One thought — repeating, incessant — rattled through his head: John was going to kiss him. Right here, in front of Mycroft, who was looking on with an intrigued expression.

But that moment didn’t come, and Sherlock’s brain rebooted, then kicked into overdrive.

“How do you feel?” John asked, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. Using his grip on Sherlock’s jaw, John narrowed his eyes and studied Sherlock’s face. As he did, Sherlock’s racing mind made sense of the gesture. John was checking him over. He radiated clinical detachment, a doctor checking on his patient and nothing more.

Sherlock’s heart sank. The breath caught in his lungs rushed out in a loud exhale, and he blinked. “Better,” he said, still too aware of John’s palm against his jaw. The contact burned. “The sleep helped.” Sherlock’s voice sounded rough, and he coughed, his eyes darting over John’s shoulder to meet Mycroft’s pointed gaze and raised eyebrows.

“Good,” John said quietly, a small smile touching his lips. His words sounded sincere. “I’m glad.”

Sherlock cleared his throat again, and John’s hand dropped back to his side. He stepped away, leaving behind a chill that made Sherlock want to follow him, tugged by some invisible thread. Resisting the urge, he held his ground and offered a strained smile. “Yes, thank you. Your advice was… spot on.” The words emerged awkwardly from his lips, and Sherlock looked past John’s bemused expression to the gun resting on the table. “I see you’ve been busy.”

John’s eyes lit up at the reminder, and he returned to the weapon with a spring in his step. “New toy,” he replied, sounding almost reverent as he bent down to pick up the large gun. “I’m considering forgiving your brother if he lets me play with more toys like this one.” John cocked the weapon. The sound was loud in the room, John’s eyes sweeping over the length with an appreciative gleam. The gun looked like it belonged there, resting in John’s hands with his fingers fitting to each sharp angle like he was an extension of the weapon itself.

Sherlock once more found himself remembering those hands on his body and imagined what it would feel like to have John touch him the way he touched the weapon. He wondered if John might explore his body with the same skill he used to handle the gun. Would John press his fingers into the dip of Sherlock’s stomach with that same easy confidence? Would his eyes light up with the same fierce glint when he tasted the skin in the hollow of Sherlock’s throat?

Drawing in a shivering breath, Sherlock swallowed and clasped his hands together at his back. “It’s a very large gun,” he said, somewhat stupidly.

John shot him a crooked smile that looked a little confused before he turned to set the gun down again. “It is,” he agreed. “Hopefully, I won’t have to rely on flashy things like this in Portugal. Still, it’s nice to know the firepower is there.” John straightened and looked at Mycroft. “How exactly am I supposed to get this on a plane?”

Lowering his mug, Mycroft affected a pitying expression. “Please, Captain Watson. As they say, this isn’t my first rodeo.” He sipped his drink and sighed. “This gun — and the other supplies you’ve requested — will be waiting for you in your hotel room.”

John appeared pleased by the information. Sherlock frowned. “Other supplies?” he asked, looking between John and his brother.

John nodded. “Protective gear and such.” He gazed down at the gun on the table with a covetous expression. “Can’t be too careful.”

Sherlock grunted his agreement. Beneath his outward calm, he felt a flicker of uncertainty. Things were about to change, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for it. No longer would he be concerned with just his own safety. Now, Sherlock had John to worry about. And while the two of them having each other’s backs might, in theory, make them both harder to kill, it didn’t guarantee safety. Looking at John, eyeing the gun with evident excitement helped soften the edges of Sherlock’s concern but didn’t banish it entirely.

Desperate to stop the direction of his thoughts, Sherlock looked to his brother. Picking up on the silent plea, Mycroft turned to him and nodded. “Whatever you need, let me know, and I’ll have it sent to the hotel pending your arrival,” he said, tapping a finger to his mug. “Clothes, weapons, supplies… whatever you need.”

Sherlock tipped his head in understanding. “Is everything prepared for our travel tomorrow, then?”

Mycroft set his mug on the coffee table, next to the weapon that John was slowly disassembling again. “More or less. I have a few final details I wish to go over if you’ll both humour me. Also, there is food waiting for you in the kitchen.”

“Fish and chips,” John added, looking up from the gun. “Soggy, now, but I could heat it up in a pan if you want.”

A sharp comment sat heavily on Sherlock’s tongue, but he found himself suddenly exhausted. Despite his nap, he didn’t seem to have the energy to insult his brother’s food choices. “I’m fine for now,” he said and took a seat on the sofa. John nodded and remained on the floor next to Sherlock’s legs, stripping the gun down to its basic parts.

Sherlock stared at him, taking advantage of being unobserved by the ex-soldier to study him. Looking at John, taking in his quiet, unwavering calm, Sherlock wondered if he was the only one worried about Portugal. He tried to let John’s unperturbed energy settle some of his own disquiet, but it didn’t quite work.

Turning to Mycroft, Sherlock saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. It seemed he wasn’t the only one with uncertainties. Maybe John was just better at hiding his concerns than Sherlock was at repressing them.

He could only hope that his worries proved unfounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that Hired Gun will only update on Fridays now, so I have more time for my two upcoming FandomTrumpsHate works.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP. I plan on finishing it, and updates will be on Fridays.
> 
> This fic has a playlist now: [Hired Gun on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0m3qtNo8t6HhyV7GBA84iL?si=4084c40ed7f6481f)

**Works inspired by this one:**

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